


My Insides Are Copper

by foxxcub



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Puppies in love, stupid boys doing stupid things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2017-12-24 00:44:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 54,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxxcub/pseuds/foxxcub
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just once, Phil wished he could ignore Clint Barton.  It would make his life so much easier.</p><p>(or, The High School AU Where Clint and Phil Hate Each Other, Only They Really Don't, and Feelings Happen)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a case of me writing something for me to read because no one else would write it and all my friends are jerks (NOT REALLY, I LOVE YOU ALL <3333). Sirona and Polly are the instigators here, and Tora has been an awesome cheerleader who isn't afraid to yell "MAKE CLINT MORE SAD!!" so, you know.
> 
> Thanks as always to sno for the beta!
> 
> All of this is written to old school Fall Out Boy songs, so naturally the title and lyrics are from "Sending Postcards from a Plane Crash [Wish You Were Here]".

_i am such a sucker_  
 _and i’m always the last to know._  
 _my insides are copper;_  
 _i’d kill to make them gold._  


 

 

The first words Clint ever said to Phil Coulson were, “That’s really stupid.” He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but his brain was struggling with the things this kid was saying about Captain America. Mostly because the same kid had the most beautiful eyes Clint had ever seen.

Clint was thirteen. As far as he knew, boys didn’t have eyes that looked like Phil Coulson’s. It made his mouth run dry and his palms sweat.

And that’s when he’d opened his mouth and said, “That’s really stupid,” interrupting Phil’s detailed explanation of his trading card collection.

Phil blinked at him. His cheeks went a little pink, which was also pretty. It made Clint scowl. “They’re not stupid,” Phil said softly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “They’re _vintage_.”

“Who the hell cares about Captain fucking America?” Clint said, and luckily the bell for the start of the school day rang, saving him from having to watch Phil get even more blushy and hurt-looking, even though Clint didn’t care. Clint didn’t even _know him._

It was the first day of seventh grade, in a new school and a new town, with brand-spanking-new foster parents who didn’t give a crap about him. They were nice enough—they still hadn’t yelled at him, which was always a plus—but Clint knew how to read the signs of apathetic fosters. Apathetic beat abusive any day, though. He’d learned that the hard way.

What he hadn’t expected was to slip into homeroom unnoticed and somehow end up sitting next to a guy with annoying blue eyes and a hard-on for superheroes. He had all his school supplies lined up neatly on his desk; fuck, he had the expensive kind of ballpoint pens, the kind Clint used to shoplift from the Target in his last town. Clint was pretty sure Phil never had to shoplift a thing in his life.

So, yeah, he’d told the guy his cards were stupid and pretended to enjoy the way his face crumpled up like Clint had insulted his mom or something. Whatever. 

Clint reached under his desk and rubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans.

“Jerkwad,” he heard Phil mumble under his breath, and that had been that. Clint knew he hadn’t made a friend.

Phil Coulson was the last person Clint needed to make friends with, anyway.

 

 

_three years later_

 

“We’re not having this discussion again, Phil.” His mom gave that withering sigh that usually meant Phil was wearing down her defenses, but he still had a lot of work to do.

“C’mon, we both know you don’t have time to be driving me back and forth every day _and_ picking me up from practice,” Phil said in his most earnest, wide-eyed tone. “You told me to get more involved, I’m just following your orders!”

She raised an eyebrow. “They weren’t orders, they were suggestions, and don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing. I was an almost-sixteen-year-old once, too, you know.” 

“So does that mean you’ll think about it?”

“Let’s see how this varsity soccer thing goes and I’ll consider it. How about you worry about me funding your college education before we start buying you cars?”

Phil beamed. “If I get a full-ride to an NCAA school, you won’t have to worry about it.”

His mom rolled her eyes, then laughed. “You always have an answer for everything,” she replied with obvious affection. “Wonder who you got that from?”

He leaned across the console and kissed her cheek. “No clue,” Phil said. He had friends he adored, but sometimes he knew, deep down, that his mom was his best friend. The past few years since the divorce had been hard, but their relationship was stronger because of it.

As Phil stood on the corner in front of the main school doors as his mom drove off, he slung his duffel bag full of soccer gear over one shoulder and his backpack over the other. He felt the usual first-day jitters, but this year was going to be different. This year he was a sophomore starter for the varsity soccer team, thanks to a long, hard spring spent in the gym. Phil wasn’t scrawny anymore—well, he liked to think he wasn’t scrawny, at least. He’d grown a good five inches over the summer, and his t-shirts were tighter around his shoulders. No one really had an excuse to call him Weasel Boy, not that a lot of people did.

Just one guy.

Who happened to be standing right behind Phil when Phil turned around, smoking a cigarette and texting on his phone.

However, it seemed like Barton didn’t really notice who Phil was until he glanced up from his phone and met Phil’s gaze. He blinked at Phil, and his eyes flared before narrowing into a nasty scowl. 

Phil tipped his chin up and squared his shoulders, waiting for the inevitable Clint Barton cutdown. It was the first time he’d seen him since May, and it occurred to Phil rather suddenly that they were finally the same height. He no longer had to look up at Barton or feel the usual angry jealousy over Barton’s early growth spurt back in eighth grade, which had not only made him taller and broader than Phil, but also made Barton’s obvious disdain for Phil even worse. _Weasel Boy_ was something he’d come up with when Phil had reported him for smoking under the bleachers during class. “Skinny little douchebag, gotta makeup for your tiny dick somehow, right?” Barton had sneered. Phil had flipped him the bird and mouthed _fuck you_ , hating that he didn’t have the balls to say the words out loud.

Now, though—Phil wanted to smirk and ask _who’s the skinny little douchebag now?_

Of course, Barton wasn’t phased one bit. He took a drag off his cigarette and blew smoke right in Phil’s face. Phil didn’t cough, just held his breath.

“Nice shirt,” Barton drawled. 

“Thanks,” Phil replied with a sweet, forced smile. He’d bought his Captain America t-shirt from a comics store in Chicago when he was twelve. It was Phil’s favorite and no one, not even Clint, could make him ashamed of it. Sure, it was probably too small for him now, but vintage was in again—right?

“Does your mom pick out your clothes every morning, or just on Mondays?” Barton flicked his cigarette onto the pavement and stubbed it out with the toe of his sneaker. Phil resisted making a comment about how Barton was littering on school grounds.

“I’m not walking around with archaic, medieval weaponry strapped to my back,” Phil said. He wondered if Barton even knew what _archaic_ meant. He must on some level if he always insisted on participating in a sport that was made popular by _The Hunger Games_ and a Pixar movie.

To Phil’s satisfaction, Barton glowered and tugged on the black leather strap across his chest. “Archery’s way more technical than kicking a fucking ball around, smartass.”

“Do they have a World Cup for archery? I can’t remember...”

“Do they even let mouthy dickheads play soccer? I can’t remember.”

Phil felt his cheeks grow hot. Barton was smirking at him again, like he’d won, like it didn’t matter that they were the same height and Phil could (probably) kick his ass if he wanted to.

“Clint!” a female voice called. “Are you done smoking or what?” Phil glanced over Barton’s shoulder and saw Natasha Romanoff standing in the doorway, hands on her hips. Phil didn’t know her well—she’d been a new student last year—but everyone knew she didn’t socialize with many people. Except Barton, for some weird reason. Nat was beautiful and had this soft, sexy Russian accent that half the school drooled over, and yet it was Barton she’d chosen to hang out with. 

They were probably fucking. It was the only explanation that made sense.

Phil bit the inside of his lip. Jesus, where the hell had _that_ thought come from?

Barton rolled his shoulders, which did stupid things to the stupid gray henley he was wearing. It was Phil’s turn to glower. “Yeah, coming,” Barton yelled to Nat, taking a few steps back away from Phil. Then he gave Phil a totally douchestastic grin and added, “Just helpin’ this lost kid find his way back to junior high.”

“You’re hilarious,” Phil said, because sometimes he was genius around Barton.

Barton spread his arms out—again with that stupid henley pulling across his stupid chest—and said, “I like to think so! Later, Weasel.” Then he turned to saunter over to Nat, his gait lazy and careless like he was the coolest guy in the world, oblivious to the fact that he could still make Phil feel about three inches tall.

So much for this year being any different from the others.

~

“What the hell was that all about?”

“Huh?” Clint tilted his head at Nat as he dumped his books into his locker and then (very carefully) set his bow and quiver inside, double-checking that the lock was in place. Arrows were fucking easy to steal, and he couldn’t afford to lose any this year.

She waved her hand over her shoulder. “Your little discussion with Coulson back there. Are you two fighting already? It’s not even nine o’clock yet.”

“Hey, he started it,” Clint replied defensively, even though he knew that wasn’t entirely true. It’s just that—he wasn’t prepared for Coulson to show up to school looking like—like—well, not like he used to look. Not like a jock. How the fuck else was Clint supposed to respond?

Nat rolled her eyes. “You’re blushing.”

Clint slammed his locker shut. “No, I’m not.”

“You are. Have you ever considered becoming an adult and actually being Coulson’s friend? He seems all right to me.”

“He’s not,” Clint hissed, “trust me.” Nat didn’t need him rehashing all the reasons Phil Coulson was an asshole. There was the smoking incident from eighth grade, of course, not to mention the humiliating time Clint showed up to school soaking wet because he’d missed the bus and his foster dad had refused to drive him even though it was pouring rain, and Coulson had drawled, _”Better dry off or you’ll start to mold,”_ making everyone in homeroom laugh. There were the snide little whispered comments whenever Clint would walk by him in the library (“Do you _actually_ know how to read, Barton? I thought you were raised by a pack of wild dogs.”), and the one that still stung the most was when Clint had relented to Kate taking him to the winter formal, and naturally Coulson, who’d been there in his perfect shirt and tie, took one look at Clint and said, “Sneakers? Seriously? It’s a _formal_. Go hang out at the skate park, loser.” 

It had hurt much more than Clint wanted to admit, because he didn’t own a pair of dress shoes, and his suit was something Kate had found for him at Goodwill for three dollars. He’d already known he’d be miserably out of place, but Coulson had practically hung a blinking neon sign over his head screaming _POOR FOSTER KID_.

Coulson always knew how to make Clint feel like the outcast he knew he was. 

“Maybe if you weren’t—what’s the word you use?—a dickhole?—to Coulson all the time, he wouldn’t be so hateful to you,” Nat said with a deceptively innocent shrug.

“I could if I cared, but I don’t,” Clint said, smiling brightly.

Nat muttered something under her breath that Clint couldn’t quite catch. He was pretty sure it was a Russian swear word. “You tripped him that one time, he nearly broke his nose.”

“Okay, one, I said it was an accident, and two, he didn’t break his nose. He was fine.” Except Clint had totally tripped him on purpose, mostly because Coulson had insinuated in front of their entire World History class that Clint had cheated on a test. The spectacular subsequent fall Coulson took in the halls had been pretty satisfying. 

“Hmmm.” Nat made an unimpressed noise. 

Clint pulled a face at her. “Besides, why do you care if we’re chummy or not?” he asked as he followed her into homeroom.

Nat shrugged. “He has very sad eyes sometimes, like yours. Especially after you are mean to him in public.”

Clint blinked. “What do you—you think I have ‘sad eyes’?” He wasn’t going to acknowledge the other part, which insinuated that Coulson was actually _hurt_ by the shit Clint did and said to him. Like that was even remotely possible.

She patted his hand, not saying anything more. Clint leaned back in his chair and glowered as the morning announcements came over the PA system.

~

Phil’s heart thumped in a hard, anxious beat as he looked up into the gym bleachers, now filled with the entire student body for the first pep rally of the school year. The fall sports teams were lined up in neat rows for the traditional introduction of the new season, and while Phil had been waiting for this moment since he’d made the team, he was still nervous about being introduced in front of the whole school as one of the rookie players. He rocked back and forth on his heels, palms sweating, but he kept his shoulders squared, proud of the jersey he was wearing with his very own name across the back.

The cheerleaders did their usual dance routine, then introduced the varsity football team. Phil didn’t really resent them for being the team to go first; the football team weren’t regional champions or anything, and Phil had a lot of friends who played. As the players were called by name, Phil glanced idly up into the bleachers.

Up in the very top far left corner sat Barton, sprawled across two benches among his usual posse of friends. He was wearing shades indoors—probably because he was hungover—and texting while Natasha sat to his left, whispering something to him. To his right sat Kate Bishop, who was leaning over Wade Wilson’s shoulder as the two of them read over what appeared to be an old issue of _Zoobooks_ about zebras. 

As Phil watched, Barton sort of lazily lifted his arm and draped it across Natasha’s shoulders, fingers toying with her hair. She didn’t seem to notice or react, just kept whispering to him with a very intense look on her face. At one point Barton looked up from his phone and grinned at her, a crooked slant of his mouth that could almost be called sweet if you didn’t know the guy.

Did Barton actually smile at people he liked? What did it take to earn a smile, or did he only save them for people he was sleeping with? Phil frowned to himself; like it even mattered. _He’d_ never have to worry about it, since Barton would probably run through the halls naked before doing something as innocuous as smile at Phil.

“And now for our newest goalie, Phil Coulson!”

Shit, his coach was saying his name. Phil blinked, realizing everyone was staring at him and clapping politely. His face flushed a bright pink, and he could feel himself giving the dopiest grin as he waved awkwardly. Then he made the mistake of looking back up into the bleachers.

Barton had pushed his sunglasses up onto the top his head and was watching Phil with narrowed eyes. Natasha was clapping, and she poked Barton in the ribs, nodding toward Phil. He could plainly see Barton’s mouth form the word _whatever_ as he flipped his sunglasses back down and went back to his phone.

Phil absolutely hated that his stomach dipped in vague disappointment. What the hell was he expecting, anyway?

“Hey, why the face?” Dylan, one of the senior players, asked Phil as the pep rally ended and the teams filed out of the gym. “It’s game day! You’re starting! You should be, like, owning that shit, dude.” He slapped Phil on the shoulders.

Phil grit his teeth and thought, _Yeah, I should. I’m pretty damn awesome, and what Clint Barton thinks doesn’t mean shit._

He beamed at Dylan, gave him a fist bump, and decided then and there that he was going to spend the rest of his high school days pretending Barton didn’t exist.

~

“Is this really necessary?”

Kate sighed as she yanked Clint down onto the bench beside her. “Yes, it is. Either you come to these things with me or I’m going to have to get new friends who actually socialize and aren’t assholes.”

“You don’t socialize, what the hell,” Clint muttered, glaring at the soccer field stretched out in front of him. The last thing he wanted to do was watch a damn game when he should be practicing, and Kate of all people should’ve understood that. “You realize we have a meet in like three days.”

“Right, and you practiced for five hours yesterday. You were rubbing your elbow all day today,” Kate replied, waving to someone over Clint’s shoulder. “You need the rest.”

Man, he hated it when Kate got mom-like on him. He was four months older than her, for fuck’s sake. Clint scrubbed both hands through his hair and dug his phone out of his pocket. If anything, he could kill some time flirting with this guy he’d met at a meet last week; the dude was kind of dumb, but he was hot and only lived fifteen minutes away from town. Plus, he had a car. Clint hadn’t gotten laid in a while, he could use a blowjob or two.

“Ugh, are you texting that Hayden guy again?” Kate wrinkled her nose. “He told me I had a nice ass.”

“You do have a nice ass,” Clint said.

“Duh, but you don’t tell me that right when I’m about to make a shot.”

“He was intimidated. ‘Sides, I’m workin’ an angle here. It’s not like the guy’s gonna be my boyfriend or anything.”

“Like you’d even have the slightest idea what to do with a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend, for that matter,” Kate grumbled.

Clint couldn’t help but laugh at that. He draped his arm around her neck. “Aw, Katey-Kat, you know I love you.”

“Ew, I told you not to call me that, it’s so gross,” she hissed, but still leaned into him. Clint was happy she’d gotten over being embarrassed and tense around him after she’d kissed him late one night at a party after too many beers. Clint adored her, but like a sister he’d never had. The chemistry just wasn’t there between them.

“Am I interrupting something?” Nat drawled, nudging Clint’s knees apart and wedging herself between his feet on the bench.

“Uh, hi, since when do you come to these things?” Clint said, poking her thigh with the toe of his sneaker.

“I like soccer. I’m supporting my school,” she replied smoothly as she took her MacBook out of her bag and proceeded to pull up a word doc.

Kate grinned. “Didn’t think you’d actually respond to my text to come out here.”

Nat shrugged one shoulder. “I can do homework and watch a game. It’s excellent multi-tasking.”

Uh-huh. Or you heard Bucky Barnes is starting tonight.”

“I have no idea what you’re referring to, Katherine.” Nat started typing a little faster.

Clint had a snarky comment all ready to go about how Nat was, in fact, human like the rest them, except the home team came out onto the field just then. Sure enough, Barnes was out there, but Clint’s attention was snagged by someone else.

He didn’t like to admit that he knew Coulson played goalie; he told himself it was because everyone made such a big fucking deal over Coulson being a sophomore and being on varsity. No one would give a shit if he played any other position.

“D’you know if they stay undefeated they’ll set some school record?” Kate asked.

Clint made a grunting noise, chewing the inside of his lip as he watched Coulson drop into a sprawl near one of the goals, legs spread in a straddle and his arms stretched over his head in one long, solid line. Someone threw a ball at him and he caught it one-handed, laughing as he rolled neatly to his feet. 

“Please don’t embarrass yourself. Or us,” Nat drawled without looking up from her furious typing.

“ _Embarrass_ myself?” Clint flailed his hand around. “I’m just sitting here!”

“You’re staring at Coulson, and I can feel something horrible’s about to come out of your mouth.”

A flare of heat crawled up the back of his neck. “Just ‘cause Weasel’s the goalie doesn’t mean—”

“Oh my _god_ , would you stop?” Kate moaned. “I have gym with Phil, he’s a really nice guy. Why can’t you mess around with someone like him instead of d-bags like Hayden?”

Wow, okay, the absolute last thing Clint wanted to think about was getting head from Phil Coulson, because _no_. Jesus Christ. Like Mr. Perfect would ever get on his knees for another guy. Or jack another guy off. Or kiss another guy. Or—

“Hayden’s hot, for one thing,” Clint said, making a pointed attempt to go back to his hook-up texting agenda. 

Kate snorted. “I’ve seen Phil with his shirt off, okay, he’s totally your type.”

Clint glared down at his phone. “Give it a rest, Bishop. If he’s so hot, why don’t you date him?”

“I’m not into getting laid constantly like some people.” 

“Stop making me sound like a goddamn manwhore.”

“You kind of are,” Nat chipped in. 

“ _Hey_ , when did this become about my sex life? I’ve only—” He lost his train of thought when he saw Coulson taking a flying leap across the goal to block a practice shot, landing in a heap with the ball clutched to his chest. His jersey had ridden up, exposing a fine, dark trail of hair.

Clint blinked, then got pissed. Fuck this, why’d he let Kate talk him into going to this stupid game, anyway?

His phone suddenly buzzed with a text from Hayden. _Want 2 meet up in 30?_

“Yeah, I’m out of here,” Clint said. He stood up, ignoring the exasperated sigh from Kate and the eyebrow tilt from Nat.

“The game hasn’t even started!” Kate said.

“You’ll survive without me.” And because his stomach was doing a weird twisty thing he didn’t want to think about, he cupped both hands over his mouth and yelled, “Don’t fuck it up, Weasel!”

Coulson’s head jerked toward the stands, and in the process he completely missed blocking another practice shot. The ball sailed past him, and Clint took that opportunity to give two huge, obnoxious thumbs up.

For a moment, those stupid blue eyes of Coulson’s were very wide and very—well, Clint would say hurt if he didn’t know better. But the look disappeared almost immediately, replaced with the familiar glare Clint expected.

“Embarrassing,” he heard Nat say in a sing-song voice.

~

“Is there a scout hangin’ around somewhere that I don’t know about?” Bucky asked.

Phil shoved wet hair out of his eyes as he stripped off his jersey. “Not that I know of, why?” He couldn’t stop grinning, still running on post-game adrenaline.

“‘Cause that was some intense shit from you out there.”

Phil beamed. “What can I say, I wanted to win.”

“So did I, but you were on another level, dude. I thought you’d, like, wolf out and eat those guys’ faces or something.” Bucky laughed and slapped Phil’s shoulder. “Whatever lit a fire under your ass, I hope it happens all the time.”

“I’ll try to focus on my werewolf tactics more,” Phil said, ignoring the swoop in his stomach from the suddenly memory of hearing Barton’s voice yelling at him from the bleachers not to fuck things up. What was he even doing there, anyway? Barton never came to games as far as Phil knew—any sport other than his own was beneath him. Obviously Barton had shown to fuck with him, as usual, but the joke was on him; Phil had gone on to block a half dozen goals, leaving the other team scoreless. He was the star of the game.

“You keep playing at that level and you’ll have a great future in this sport,” his coach had said as they’d headed to the locker rooms, and Phil had thought his heart would burst with pride.

 _Take that, Barton_ , he’d thought smugly.

“Come out with us tonight,” Bucky said, pulling Phil from his satisfied internal monologue. “I’m meeting Steve and some other guys for burgers.”

“Yeah, okay,” Phil said right as his stomach growled. His mom was working late and would be expecting Phil to feed himself, anyway.

He rode with Bucky out to a diner on the edge of town, a greasy spoon joint Phil had never been to, but Bucky apparently loved. It was packed for a Wednesday night, and half the crowd Phil didn’t recognize.

“The guys from Crawford like to hang out here,” Bucky explained, referring to the rival town ten minutes away. “We mostly ignore ‘em, but it’s not a big deal. It’s usually the archery team, anyway, and those guys don’t make trouble.”

Phil paused. If the Crawford archery team hung out here, that could mean—no. Screw it. Phil shook his head and followed after Bucky, reminding himself that he didn’t give a shit if Barton was around or not. In fact, it would give Phil a great opportunity to gloat and tell Barton was fucking loser he was and—

“Hey, Phil, great game!”

He jumped and nearly collided into Kate Bishop. “Sorry, sorry, I was—hi, hey. Thanks?” Phil gave her a sheepish grin. “I didn’t know you were at the game.”

Kate waved her hand. “My schedule’s been insane this year. You’re awesome, by the way, wow. That last play was crazy.”

Phil blushed. He liked Kate; she had a confidence about her that Phil envied. “Thanks. I’m pretty happy with how the game went.”

“You should be! I wish Clint had stuck around to watch, I told him he was missing out.”

And that was Kate’s one flaw: she was best friends with Barton. Phil didn’t understand how someone so cool could have such crap taste in friends. “How much did you pay him to be there?” 

Kate rolled her eyes. “I didn’t. I’m trying to get him to be more social, or at least the kind of social that doesn’t involve shoving his tongue down random guys’ throats.”

Phil totally wasn’t prepared for the weird coiling sensation in his chest. The heat in his cheeks hadn’t gone away. “What do you mean—”

“Oh, gimme a break,” Kate suddenly moaned. “ _Ugh_ , wait here, Phil, I’ll be right back.” Then she stomped across the lot to a red Honda Civic parked in the shadows. She slapped her hand against the passenger window, and it was then that Phil recognized who was in the car.

“Really?” he heard Kate say. “There are people around, Clint. No one wants to see that.”

The door opened and Barton climbed out, grinning deviously at Kate. His hair was a wreck, sticking up in all directions, and his cheeks were flushed, not to mention his mouth was all puffy-looking and—

Fuck. Phil grit his teeth and told himself to go inside. 

Barton looked over as Kate gestured toward Phil and their eyes met. 

“‘sup, Weasel? Were we givin’ you a good show?” Barton called out in a lazy drawl. The guy behind the wheel—Phil could vaguely make him out as big and blond—must have said something to Barton then, because Barton laughed and added, “Yeah, probably. Though I’d feel sorry for that poor bastard.”

Phil was pretty damn sure Barton was making a comment on Phil’s sexual attractiveness—or lack thereof. _Go inside_ , the rational part of his brain screamed, but Phil took a deep breath and called back, “I don’t need to get laid in a parking lot, I have standards.”

“Sure you do,” Barton laughed, swiping his tongue over his lower lip, which was...not something Phil wanted to see. At all. He dug his nails into his palm and tried to keep himself in check. 

Kate was tugging on Barton’s sleeve. “C’mon, I’ll buy you a milkshake if you shut up.” She gave Phil an apologetic look, but he didn’t blame her for any of this. It wasn’t Kate’s fault Barton was an asshole.

Barton shrugged, ducked back into the car to say something to the big blond guy, who laughed and grabbed Barton by the front of his t-shirt, yanking him into a fast, messy kiss. Even at a distance Phil could see the way Barton smiled against the guy’s mouth, the flash of tongue as his lips parted wide.

Phil swallowed. He’d never been kissed like that. He’d never been kissed, period. It wasn’t something he really thought about much; his focus these days was on soccer, not making out with someone. The latter wasn’t going to get him a college scholarship.

But watching Barton go all loose and easy as he let the guy manhandle him into the kiss, Phil couldn’t help but breathe a little deeper, heart thumping low and heavy.

It was over almost immediately, Barton jerking away and out of the car, winking as he slapped the hood of the car. “Later, man,” he said in a smooth, flirty voice Phil had never heard before. His nails dug harder into his hand.

He didn’t need to see this. Barton’s extracurricular activities weren’t his business. Phil turned on his heel and marched into the diner, making a beeline for the corner booth where Bucky sat with Steve. 

“Where were you?” Bucky asked as he pushed a plate of fries toward Phil. “Thought you’d gotten lost or something.”

“Got sidetracked,” Phil mumbled, not looking up when Barton walked in with Kate behind him.

Steve frowned. “You okay?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Barton sprawl into the booth across from them, legs stretched out beneath the table. He rubbed his thumb absently over his lips, and Phil wanted to punch something.

“Yup, I’m great,” Phil replied. He forced himself to smile at Steve. “Just having an adrenaline crash, I guess.”

Just once, he’d like to truly be able to ignore Clint Barton. It would make his life so much easier.

~

Clint snuck in through the back gate, barely making a sound. Thankfully, the porch light wasn’t on, and as he fumbled for his key, Clint breathed a sigh of relief. It was an hour and a half past his curfew, and his foster dad didn’t normally take lightly to Clint showing up late.

He heard a snuffling in the bushes along the house. Clint froze, then carefully knelt down on the ground and whispered, “Lucky? Is that you?” There was a soft _woof_ , and soon a scruffy head poked around the corner. 

Clint smiled and shook his head. “C’mere, you,” he said, holding his hand out. The dog immediately trotted over and butted against Clint’s palm. Lucky was a stray who hung around the area; Clint had named him several months back after he’d managed to keep Lucky from being hit by a garbage truck. He knew his fosters would never let him keep a dog, so Clint fed Lucky on the sly, even taught him a few tricks whenever he could. Clint kept waiting for the day Lucky disappeared for good, or got hit by a car without Clint there to save him.

A lot of times, Lucky was the only thing that made Clint come home at night. Well, that and the promise of the beat-up Harley sitting in the shed once Clint turned sixteen. Margo, his foster mom, had told him he could have it if he kept his grades up and could fix it himself. His foster dad hadn’t been too keen on that, saying Clint would probably “fuck the thing up even more,” but he hadn’t objected. Sometimes Clint fantasized about taking the Harley and Lucky and leaving town forever.

At least Margo wasn’t so bad. She’d let him have a cell phone, mostly because she worked at a cell phone store and got a really good discount. But all her good intentions meant shit when her husband was drunk and angry at everything. Terrance was a big guy, much bigger than Clint, and Clint had learned years ago that you didn’t mess with people bigger than you, no matter how much you hated them. 

Clint sat down on the dirty porch and leaned his head against Lucky’s. He’d spent the night fucking around in with Hayden in his car, and a part of him had wished Kate hadn’t shown up and demanded he cut things short; he’d been waiting for Hayden to invite him back to his house, since his parents were out of town for the week. Clint half-wished most of the guys he fucked would take him home—not because he liked them that much, but because any house was better than coming back to a dog that wasn’t technically his and foster dad who had a short fuse. Clint compromised by staying out as late as he could, until he was certain Terrance was asleep or passed out.

Lucky made a quiet grumbling sound, and for some reason that made Clint think of Coulson standing in the diner parking lot, staring at Clint like he’d never seen him before. Probably thinking about what a lame piece of shit Clint was, but whatever. Clint could care less what Coulson thought of him. When he left the diner, Coulson went home to his perfect house and perfect family, and went to sleep in his perfect bed. He probably had his own dog that his parents let him pick out.

Clint flinched and wrapped his arm around Lucky. Fuck Coulson, he could judge Clint all he wanted. Clint just had to survive until he was eighteen and then he was gone. Most guys Clint’s age cared about college, but all Clint wanted was to have his own life.

Coulson would never understand that.


	2. Chapter 2

_one year later_

 

Phil had never cut out of school a day in his life, but today was beginning to look like that all could change. He sat through each hour and watched the clock slowly tick toward three, dreading each second that went by.

”It’s only dinner,” his mother had said that morning, right after she’d informed Phil that his dad was in town and wanted to see him. Funny how the guy hadn’t bothered to see Phil for the last four years. 

“I’m not going,” Phil had replied tightly, but he’d winced when his mom had laid a hand on his arm.

“I know what you’re feeling,” she’d said quietly, “and you have every right to be angry. But he’s your father. He wants to hear about how his son’s the new captain of the soccer team.”

The last thing in the world Phil wanted was to make the man who’d abandoned them proud. But he hated upsetting his mom even more, so he’d gritted his teeth and whispered, “Fine. Just dinner.”

And now he sat through class with a lead weight in his stomach. It wasn’t fair, none of it was fair; Phil was finally learning to move on from the divorce. He didn’t want to relive the helpless anger he’d dealt with all through junior high.

“That anger helped make you captain,” Phil muttered to himself as he made his way through the halls to his final class. Maybe he’d let his dad know that after all; maybe he’d tell him about how Phil was looking to go to Indiana University to play Division I soccer, that a scout for the program had already been in contact with him, and that Phil had been the star player his sophomore year, setting records and earning regional and state titles. And _none of it_ happened with his dad around.

Phil was so lost in his thoughts and the frustration that been building all day that he didn’t watch where he was going. The next thing he knew, he’d slammed into someone’s shoulder, hard, and a familiar voice growled, “What the _fuck_ , Weasel?”

 _Shit._ He wasn’t equipped to deal with any of this right now. “Sorry,” Phil said to Barton, eyes downcast. “Didn’t mean to.”

“Yeah? You sure about that?” Barton got right in Phil’s face, nose to nose. Phil’s heart jumped into overdrive, every inch of him ready to strike back, but he wouldn’t. Not today. 

“I said I was sorry.” This time Phil met Barton’s eyes. 

“Uh-huh. I think this is payback.”

“Maybe if you didn’t fuck with my stuff, you wouldn’t be so paranoid.” Great, now Phil was being reminded of how Barton had let the air out of Phil’s back tires in the school parking lot two weeks ago. No one had seen him do it, but Kate had come to Phil the next day and told him what Clint had done—“I already reamed his ass, but feel free to rinse and repeat,” she’d said.

“Who said anything about me being paranoid? I’m calling it as it is.”

“You’re being a paranoid _dickwad_ , so get the fuck out of my face.” Phil shoved him for real this time, and he felt the spark of anger that had been simmering inside him all day flare into something hot and ugly. 

Barton’s eyes widened in surprise as he stumbled back. “You little shit,” he hissed, and Phil knew what was coming next. His head hit the lockers with a loud _bang_ , making Phil see stars as pain sparked behind his eyes. 

And that was all it took to send everything into a downward spiral. 

Phil was aware of fists flying, of his knuckles crashing into Barton’s nose and feeling it crack, of Barton tackling him to the ground and the shooting pain in the side of his jaw. Blood was dripping down over Barton’s mouth and onto Phil’s cheeks, and they were screaming things at each other: _asshole_ , _cocksucker_ , _fucking bitch_ , and _worthless bastard_ were just a few Phil could remember when it was all over.

It was as if Phil had been in a trance of anger and didn’t fully come out of it until he was sitting in the principal’s office in a chair beside Barton, panting and aching all over. Barton’s nose was a mess of blood, and his left eye was starting to swell a little. They didn’t speak as Principal Xavier called their parents.

Damn it, Phil’s mom was going to kill him.

Xavier hung up the phone and gave Barton an unreadable look. “Young man, it seems your foster parents are unavailable at this time. Mr. Coulson, your mother is on her way. You’re both suspended for the day. In the meantime, I’d like an explanation for what transpired between the two of you before I make my decision as to whether I suspend you for the rest of the week, or merely assign you both to detention for the month.”

Neither of them said a word. Out of the corner of his eye, Phil could see Barton licking at the corner of his lower lip where the skin was split; his knee bounced nonstop.

Xavier raised an eyebrow at Phil. “Mr. Coulson? Care to enlighten me? This is extremely uncharacteristic behavior for you.”

Barton snorted. Phil glared down at his hands in his lap and said, “No, sir.”

“I see. Mr. Barton?”

Clint shrugged, knee still bouncing frantically. “Friendly tussle, ‘s all.”

“Friends don’t bloody each other’s noses.” Xavier sat back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. “If memory serves me right, you’re both captains of your respective teams this year, yes?”

Phil sat up a little straighter. He hadn’t known Barton had been made archery team captain; traditionally the position had always gone to a senior. 

Barton’s knee had stopped bouncing. “Uh...sir?” he asked, very softly. 

“Do I have your word that there will be no more fighting in my halls between the two of you?” 

“Yes,” they said in unison.

Xavier held up his hands. “Then I’ve made my decision. I won’t have you both suspended, or send you to detention. I will, however, turn this matter over to Nick Fury. He will decide your punishment.”

Phil’s stomach dropped into his feet. Fury was the school’s athletic director, the head of the sports teams. He had just as much authority as Xavier—if not more. He could easily decide to bench Phil and Barton for the rest of the season.

Phil would rather have taken the suspension.

Barton was apparently reading Phil’s thoughts. “Sir, Director Fury will have us benched,” he said.

Xavier clucked his tongue. “He very well might. That decision is out of my hands. In the meantime, Mr. Barton, please make your way to the nurse’s office before you head home. Mr. Coulson, you’ll wait here until your mother arrives.”

Barton was up and out of his seat in a flash. Phil just slumped down and buried his face in his hands, wondering just how much worse this day could get.

~

“Well, it’s not broken,” Mrs. Carly, the school nurse, said as she swabbed Clint’s nose clean. “You’re lucky the guy who hit you didn’t put his back into it.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “Just give me some painkillers and get me out of here.”

“What do you think I am, a dealer? You get Tylenol and that’s it, buddy.” She swatted Clint on the shoulder, but it wasn’t hard at all. If anything, she sounded fond. Like a mom.

“Do I at least get Codeine for the road?” Clint asked, just to be an ass.

Mrs. Carly wasn’t amused. “You wish. Now stay put while I go get some butterfly bandages from storage. Haven’t had any use for them in months.”

The second she was out of sight, Clint gingerly felt his nose to make sure it wasn’t still bleeding, then slipped out the door and into the quiet hallway. He wasn’t looking forward to the three mile walk home—his bike wasn’t fixed up yet, so he usually rode to school with Natasha—but walking beat waiting around for Terrance to show up and make a scene.

He was about to turn the corner by the principal’s office when he heard a woman say, “God, Phil, look at you. What were you thinking?”

Clint halted and pressed his shoulder against the wall. He leaned carefully around the corner and saw Coulson standing with his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, shoulders hunched and head bowed. His left cheek was seriously starting to bruise, and there was a cut at the corner of his mouth. A lady Clint assumed was his mother shook her head at him.

“It just—happened, okay? I don’t know what you want me to say.” Coulson sounded really young.

“I want you to tell me why you’re fighting at school. And on today of all days—you’re going to show up to dinner with your father looking like a prizefighter.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t go to dinner, then,” Coulson replied darkly.

His mom put her hands on his shoulders. “Is that why you did this? To get out of seeing him?”

Coulson shrugged her off. “Why do you even care? Who gives a shit what I look like, it’s not like the bastard’ll recognize me, anyway.”

“Phil, watch your mouth.”

“Stop defending him, Jesus! He’s the one who left us, and I’m the one getting yelled at? That’s fucked up, Mom, and you know it.” He pointed a finger at her, but the second the words left his mouth, Coulson seemed to regret them. He bit his lip, eyes going wide as he jerked his hand back.

His mom’s lips thinned out, and Clint could see a distinct, angry tick in her jaw. She didn’t really look like the type of person to be pissed off lightly. “You know better than to speak to me that way, Phillip,” she said in a dangerously low, even voice.

“I’m sorry,” Coulson said. “I didn’t—” He shut his eyes and cupped both hands over his face, sighing roughly. “Can we just go home now, please?”

“I think that’s a good idea.” His mom took a deep breath, then pulled Coulson into a hug. He was taller than her by quite a bit; she fit under his chin perfectly.

Clint tried to remember what his own mom had looked like, if she’d be shorter than him now. He wondered if she’d hug him like that right after he’d smarted off to her in public.

He started to turn away, feeling uncomfortably intrusive on their family moment, only he heard Coulson’s mom ask, “The boy you hit—who was he?”

Clint chewed the corner of his thumb and tried his damndest to keep walking. Instead, he waited, ignoring the way his heart pounded a little harder.

“His name’s Clint Barton. He...didn’t deserve it,” Coulson said quietly. 

“Is he a friend of yours?”

“No. He kind of hates me. A lot.” He sounded weirdly sad.

His mom pulled back and reached up to ruffled Coulson’s hair. “I doubt that’s true. You’ve got my looks and my charm, everyone should love you.”

He laughed weakly. “I guess Barton’s immune.”

“Then he’s defective somehow. It’s his loss.” She tugged him down and kissed Coulson’s cheek as the two of them headed toward the front doors to the parking lot. Her arm stayed around Coulson’s back the whole way.

Clint leaned against the wall and dug the toe of his sneaker into a crack in the tiled floor. Coulson’s mom’s words kept bouncing around inside him, making his head hurt. 

Defective? Screw her.

He took off down the hall after them, slowing his steps as he got to the doors. As he pushed out into the afternoon sunlight, Clint swallowed hard and yelled, “Hey, Coulson!”

Both Coulson and his mom turned abruptly. She eyed him curiously, but Coulson looked braced for another fight. “Yeah?” he asked warily. 

Whatever self-righteous determination had sent Clint after them immediately deserted him. He hugged his arms across his chest and licked absently at his split lip. He desperately needed a smoke. 

“I—sorry,” Clint said.

Coulson blinked. “Seriously?”

Clint shrugged. 

“Fine.” Coulson folded his arms, mimicking Clint’s stance. “I’m...sorry, too.”

“D’you think Fury will really bench us?” Clint tried to ignore the way Coulson’s mom’s eyes darted between them.

Coulson sighed. “I don’t know. At least this was our first fight.”

“ _Only_ fight,” his mom interjected, then smiled at Clint. “It’s Clint, right? Do you need a ride home?”

“Oh, I—” He glanced at Coulson, who quickly looked away. “Naw, I’m fine. I got a car.”

Coulson’s eyes snapped back to him. He frowned, and Clint waited for him to tell his mom Clint was lying, that he didn’t own a car. 

Coulson didn’t say anything.

“All right, well, I’m glad you two reconciled,” his mom said. “Go home and put some ice on that nose, Clint.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Clint forced a smile as Coulson ducked his head and rubbed the back of his hand over his bruised eye.

 _He didn’t deserve it._

Clint watched Coulson get into his mom’s pristine Lexus and drive away. He wondered what kind of idiot he’d have to be to ever think the two of them had anything in common.

~

They met with Fury that following Friday. Phil assumed it was so that he and Barton would have the weekend to freak out over whatever punishment Fury dealt out for them. Phil had spent the last few sleepless nights considering all the horrible possibilities that could come out their meeting, and all of them ended with Barton blaming Phil for ruining his sports career.

Then again, Barton _had_ apologized, which...had been unexpected, to say the least. Phil thought maybe Barton had been trying to make him look bad in front of his mom, but the way he’d acted all fidgety and nervous didn’t seem like a typical Barton response to humiliating Phil.

Phil’s response to it all had been to ignore Barton for the rest of the week, which had worked out pretty great.

Now, though, they were both seated in uncomfortable plastic chairs in Fury’s cramped office that was just off the boys’ locker rooms. Everything smelled like dust and sweat; half-inflated basketballs sat on a shelf behind Fury’s desk, along with broken field hockey sticks, a pair of volleyball knee guards, a filthy soccer ball, and a football that had _1976 Varsity_ scrawled across it in black ink. 

An arrow was duct taped to the wall beside the shelf. Phil wondered if Barton had put it there.

“Where the fuck is he?” Barton muttered, tapping his fingers against his chair. The guy never sat still for longer than thirty seconds.

“He said he was running late. Are you really that eager to find out just how much our lives are gonna suck soon?” Phil asked.

“I’m eager to get the hell out of here. I gotta get to work in forty-five minutes.”

Phil frowned at him. “You have a part-time job? On top of being captain?”

Barton turned and smirked at him. His nose looked better, but there was still a nasty bruise around his left eye, and the cut on his lower lip was still fairly red. “Some of us don’t get Mommy to pay for everything.”

“Hey, fuck off, I work, too.”

“Yeah? Where at?”

“At...home. For my mom. I do filing for her sometimes and she—” Phil flushed angrily, because damn it, he was making it sound like Barton had a point. “Whatever, she pays me for the work.”

“Uh-huh. What, your mom’s, like, a lawyer or something?” Barton licked absently at his cut lip, flicking the tip of his tongue back and forth over it.

Phil scowled. “No. She works for the federal government as a consultant. National security stuff.”

Barton rolled his eyes. “So your mom’s a _spy_?”

“ _No._ And if she was, she wouldn’t let me file her paperwork. Duh.” Not that Phil hadn’t jokingly called his mom Spy Mom once or twice. Without thinking, he added, “She met my dad in Washington, D.C. when she was in training.” Phil winced. Yeah, talking about his dad with Barton wasn’t high on his list of priorities. And talking about his dad just made him remember the horrible, awkward dinner from three nights ago.

“Your parents are split up, right?” Barton said it so casually, like he was asking about Phil’s ACT scores or something.

Refusing to give anything away, Phil replied, “Right before I started seventh grade. Dad moved to Arlington.” And that was all Barton was getting out of him, because it was none of his goddamn business.

They sat in silence after that, the clock on the wall behind them ticking obnoxiously loud.

“Your shiner’s not that bad,” Barton mumbled.

Phil sniffed. It was a lie; his eye looked like shit, although Bucky kept saying it gave Phil “street cred,” whatever the hell that meant. Rumors were flying through school about why Phil and Barton had gotten into the fight in the first place; Phil liked the ones that said he’d won. It made his black eye a bit more tolerable.

His dad, on the other hand, had taken one look at his eye and split lip and said, “I didn’t realize soccer was a contact sport now,” with so much resigned disappointment that Phil had wanted to launch himself across the table and reenact the fight all over again.

“I’m into boxing now, didn’t Mom tell you?” Phil had replied instead.

“She told me you’re an honor roll student and team captain. That—” He’d waved his hand at Phil’s black eye. “—isn’t honorable or captain-like. Maybe I’m missing something.”

The rest of dinner had been a red blur of impotent rage on Phil’s part. When his dad drove him home in his stupid, glossy black Mercedes, he’d started to say something about being back in town at Christmas. Phil had gotten out of the car and slammed the door before his dad had finished speaking.

“My dad thought my shiner made me look like a thug,” Phil said with a harsh laugh. He glanced over at Barton, who was looking at him funny.

“You went to the dinner,” he said quietly, then wrinkled his nose, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

Phil’s eyes widened. “How did—were you listening to Mom and me in the hallway?”

Barton actually blushed. It was really weird, seeing his cheeks go all pink. It made his freckles stand out. “I may have _accidentally_ heard you guys talking, yeah. Thought you didn’t wanna go.”

“I didn’t. Mom insisted.” 

“When’s the last time you saw him?”

Phil drummed his fingers on his knee. “My fourteenth birthday.”

Barton didn’t say anything. When Phil finally looked up, he was watching him with narrowed eyes.

“Look, whatever, dude, my dad’s not your problem,” Phil said. He didn’t like Barton looking at him like that, like he was trying to dissect him. “You shouldn’t eavesdrop on private conversations. I don’t go asking you shit about your parents.”

“I don’t have any to talk about,” Barton sneered. 

Oh. Right. Foster care. Phil’s stomach dipped in contrite embarrassment. Why were they even talking about any of this? Where the _hell_ was Director Fury?

“You know what I mean,” Phil muttered, slumping down in his chair. 

“How ‘bout you don’t have your little family talks in open hallways, dumbass,” Barton said, and Phil was about to tell him where his _dumbass_ comment could go, only he was interrupted by Fury storming into the office.

“Gentlemen,” he announced loudly. He walked behind his desk, opened one of the drawers, and pulled out a giant spiral bound notebook, which he promptly slammed down in front of Phil and Barton. “Do you know what that is?”

Phil leaned forward and read the cover. “Um, Standards and Ethics for Sportsmanship?”

“Exactly. This is the Bible for all the sports programs here at Westville High School. Have you read it?”

“...No?”

“Of course you haven’t. And I know this because if you had, you’d know that fighting on school property constitutes immediate suspension from at least a third of the season.”

Barton made a whimpering sound. “Sir, my season’s like halfway over, I can’t—”

“I’m sorry, you can’t, what?” Fury asked, splaying his hands over the notebook. “You can’t handle the consequences of being assholes during school hours?”

Phil winced. “It was a mistake. Sir.”

“No. A mistake is when you accidentally try to unlock a car that looks like yours. You two were assholes. It’s beginning to be a bit of a problem.” Fury sat down hard in his chair. The hinges screeched loudly.

“We’d never gotten in a fight before,” Barton said. His voice had gone a little shrill, panicky.

Fury raised an eyebrow. “True, but don’t you dare sit there and tell me you guys haven’t been at each other’s throats for years. You’re like dynamite just waiting to be lit. I thank my lucky stars every day you both don’t play on the same damn team.”

“So...we’re benched?” Phil asked miserably. Barton’s knee had started bouncing again.

“Do you think I should bench you?”

He hated it when adults asked things like that. Phil’s mom did it all the time; it was a trick question. Contrary to what Fury thought, Phil wasn’t an idiot. 

Sighing heavily, Phil said, “Probably.” Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Barton glaring at him.

“You disagree, Barton?” Fury asked.

“I—I think we’re first-time offenders. I get good grades, and so does Coulson. We’re captains. We messed up; bench us for one game and one meet. It won’t happen again.” It was about the most earnest Phil had ever heard Barton sound.

Fury laughed, which did not bode well for them. “So you’ll both kiss and make up, huh?”

Phil almost choked. Barton’s eyes widened, and he coughed once before replying, “I-I mean, we’ve apologized—”

“Spare me the apology bullshit. There’s nothing saying you won’t be tackling each other again in a few months.” Fury rocked back in his squeaky chair, hands folded under his chin. “But I do agree with you, Barton. I don’t think I should bench you.”

“Really?” Barton said, and Phil would have laughed at the way his voice cracked had he not been overwhelmed with relief. 

But then Fury smiled. Phil knew whatever was about to come out of his mouth wouldn’t be good. “You’ll both get to finish out your respective seasons. However, I’m giving you an assignment for the rest of the year. One you’ll be required to work together on, as a team. You will meet all my set deadlines on time, no questions asked, or you _will_ be suspended from play for next school year. Do you get me?”

“Yes, sir,” they replied in unison, although Barton was glancing warily at Phil. But what more could they say? Getting stuck working on some project together was worth not getting suspended.

Maybe. 

“What, um, assignment is this?” Phil asked.

“Why, Coulson, I’m glad you asked.” Fury reached back into his desk and produced a fat, messy file folder stuffed with a mountain of paper. Scrawled across the front of the file were the words _Summer Camp_.

Fury walked around his desk and unceremoniously dumped the folder into Phil’s lap.

“You, gentlemen, will be planning and organizing the first annual Westville High Summer Sports Camp for Kids,” Fury said. “And you better not fuck it up.”

~

A year ago, Clint had been in the local pet store trying to buy a bag of dog treats for Lucky, only he’d run short on cash. Just as he’d been about to scurry away from the checkout line in humiliation, a woman in line behind him said, “It’s okay, I’ll pay for them.” She’d smiled kindly at Clint.

“You don’t have to do that,” Clint had stuttered in embarrassed relief. He’d always had a hard time accepting charity. “I can’t really pay you back right now, but—”

The lady had waved her hand. “You obviously have a dog you care about, yes?”

“Yeah,” Clint had replied shyly. It had been the first time he’d really admitted anything about Lucky out loud.

“Then I consider this helping a good cause. Besides, I might have a way for you to pay me back.” 

Her name was Laurie and she was the director of the local animal shelter, which happened to be within walking distance of school. She’d asked Clint to come by the following afternoon and she’d show him around.

And that had lead to Clint’s first real part-time job. 

It wasn’t something he talked about, and he only got a handful of hours a week that paid next to nothing, but he fiercely loved it. Clint was the youngest employee by about twenty-five years, and that suited him just fine; Laurie and the office manager, Diane, frequently doted on Clint, although he was careful never to mention his fosters.

If the shelter stayed open past seven o’clock, Clint would’ve probably slept there every night. There was something about being alone with the animals, the way they quietly watched you and didn’t expect anything in return. Clint sometimes found himself having one-sided conversations with them.

The Monday after the shitty meeting with Fury, Clint was taking Samson for a walk around the block. Samson was a black Great Dane with white paws who really thought he was a kitten; he liked to nuzzle his face into Clint’s chest and make grumbling sounds like a purr. Clint wished he could keep him.

Samson stopped to delicately sniff at a patch of flowers, ears perking up when a butterfly emerged.

“C’mon, Cupcake,” Clint drawled, using the nickname he’d given Samson several months back. “I don’t have all day, y’know.”

Samson’s tail stopped wagging as he gave Clint a pitiful look. Then he spotted something over Clint’s shoulder and suddenly moved onto the sidewalk, letting out a loud woof.

Clint turned and saw that the soccer team was apparently out for their afternoon run. In the front of the pack was Coulson.

“Whoa, giant dog!” Bucky Barnes yelled as they got closer. “Is that your security detail, Barton?”

“You wanna find out?” Clint said, and several of the guys laughed. Except Coulson, who slowed to a stop in front of Clint as the rest of the guys ran on.

“Hey,” Coulson said awkwardly. He swiped the back of his arm over his face, and Clint really didn’t need to be presented with so much bare, sweaty skin. Why couldn’t Coulson do his runs with a shirt on? Why did his shorts have to sit so damn low on his hips? 

“Hey,” Clint replied, biting the inside of his lip. It wasn’t like he’d never acknowledged to himself that Coulson was built, but Clint had seen hotter guys naked before. Seriously. Coulson wasn’t all that hot. It’s just that his shoulders were too wide for the rest of his body. That’s all. It was weird. Distracting.

Coulson seemed to notice Clint’s inability to stop staring at him. He fidgeted, hugged his arms tight across his chest. It didn’t help the whole shoulder distraction—thing. “So, we need to talk about Fury’s assignment,” he said. “We can’t just ignore it and hope it goes away.”

Clint huffed. Samson tugged on his leash, spotting another errant butterfly. “When I’m not working, I’m in practice. Same goes for you.”

Coulson tilted his head. “You’re at work now?”

“Yeah, I...I work at the animal shelter on tenth street two days a week. That’s where this guy came from.” He pointed his sneaker at Samson. 

“Oh.” Clint fully expected Coulson to make some stupid comment about Clint having a lame sport _and_ a lame job, but instead he crouched down in front of Samson and rubbed both hands behind his ears.

“You’re a handsome dude,” Coulson said, his voice a combination of playful affection and quiet gentleness. He grinned at Samson, who completely went to pieces for him and butted his head against Coulson’s cheek.

“Wow, he’s a sweetheart.” Coulson turned that same smile to Clint, and it was—Clint blinked, like he’d been sideswiped. 

“Samson, stop flirting with Coulson, Jesus.” Clint pulled on the leash, but Samson wouldn’t budge. He licked Coulson’s nose, which made him laugh.

“How come no one’s adopted him yet?” 

“I dunno. Big dogs are a hassle.”

Coulson’s expression sobered somewhat, and his stupid blue eyes went all wide and earnest. “Does your shelter have a no-kill policy?” he asked.

“Not officially, but our director, Laurie, never puts ‘em down. She always finds a home for them eventually.” 

“That’s good.” Coulson stood up and scratched absently over his stomach, right over the thin, dark trail of hair that disappeared into the waistband of his shorts. Clint swallowed and looked away.

“Practice gets out at six-thirty on Thursday,” Coulson said. “We could go to my house after?”

Clint really didn’t like the idea of being alone with Coulson in his own house for some reason. It made his heart beat a little faster. But Coulson was right—they had to get started on this summer camp project soon or Fury would have their asses. “I should be out of practice by then, too,” he said. 

“Do you...want to ride with me?” Coulson didn’t meet his eyes, like he was embarrassed to admit Clint didn’t have a car.

“You could just make me ride the bus,” Clint replied snidely, without really meaning it.

He watched Coulson flinch, followed by a familiar glare. “I was just being nice,” he said.

“I don’t need you to be nice, Coulson. Just ‘cause we’re on this project together doesn’t mean we’re friends.”

“I never thought we were friends. I’m not a fucking idiot.” He shoved a hand through his hair, jaw clenched. “Whatever, just be at my house by seven on Thursday.” Coulson took off down the sidewalk after the rest of his team, his back a long, tense line.

Clint refused to feel guilty about any of it.

Samson pushed his head under Clint’s arm and made his weird little purring noise.

“Yeah, yeah,” Clint muttered. “You like everybody, whether they deserve it or not.”


	3. Chapter 3

Phil tried not to dread Thursday, and he mostly succeeded. A huge game was coming up on Friday against a really hard team; Phil tended to take on the pressure like every match was do-or-die, making him tense and nervous during the forty-eight hours leading up to game time. Needless to say, Barton was the least of his worries when Thursday afternoon finally rolled around. He was so unconcerned, he didn’t even notice practice had run late.

He was headed to the locker room to shower when he happened to glance at his phone and saw it was nearly seven o’clock.

“ _Shit_ ,” Phil hissed, and ran straight for his car. 

He pulled up in his driveway at ten after, still wearing his cleats. Sitting on the front steps with his bow in his lap was Barton. He was also smoking.

“Sorry,” Phil said as he grabbed his backpack and duffel full of gear. 

Barton didn’t look up as he stubbed his cigarette out. “I was here at seven, dude. Just so we’re clear.”

Phil gritted his teeth. Yeah, he wasn’t going to hear the end of this for a while. “I lost track of time. Don’t you ever get caught up in stuff?”

“I’m not Mr. Perfect,” Barton drawled. 

“Don’t call me that. I’m not perfect.” 

“Obviously, since you’re late.” Barton stood up and slung his bow over his shoulder with a smirk. “D’you have any food in your house? I’m starving.”

“I don’t know, is my food good enough for you?” Phil snipped as he unlocked the front door. He made a point to shoulder his way in front of Barton before dumping his soccer gear by the stairs and toeing his cleats off. He desperately needed a shower, but he didn’t want to leave Barton alone to wander around gathering incriminating evidence on Phil’s personal life.

But when Phil turned usher Barton up the stairs to his room, he found him huddled in the doorway with his hands shoved in his pockets.

“Are you coming in or not?” Phil gestured to the stairs. “I can probably dig up a frozen pizza or something if you’re gonna be a jerk about—”

“You’ve got a really nice house,” Barton said quietly. His eyes were wide, and he was staring up at the antique chandelier that hung in the foyer. It had been a birthday from Phil’s grandma to his mom years ago; Phil hated the thing because he always got stuck dusting it.

“Thanks?” Phil replied. “I’ve basically lived here my whole life.” He’d never really had anyone look all wonderstruck over his house before. Phil knew he lived in a nice neighborhood, but he’d grown up here. He figured his house was normal for the area. 

Barton chewed his lower lip. “D’you have, like, maids and stuff?”

Phil burst out laughing. “Are you serious? My mom would die before she let strangers in the house just to clean it.”

“She makes you do it?” Barton scowled at him, his cheeks faintly pink.

“Sometimes, when she’s traveling.” Phil wondered why Barton cared so much about who cleaned his house, then he remembered: fosters. Did Barton’s foster parents make him do a lot of chores? Did they have a huge house that he got forced into cleaning?

Phil didn’t know how to even begin to ask those questions, so he awkwardly waved his hand toward the kitchen. “I’ll go see if there’s any food in the freezer. You can, uh, tag along, or just go up to my room. It’s the first one on the right.” 

Barton glanced up the stairs. “Yeah, okay,” he said, shifting his bow to his other shoulder. He closed the door behind him, but didn’t move right away. Phil was already in the kitchen before he heard footsteps heading toward his room.

“Damn it,” Phil murmured, and dropped his forehead against the fridge. He’d totally forgotten to clean up, i.e. hide all his Captain America paraphernalia and Magic: The Gathering cards that were scattered everywhere from the night before when he’d had Steve over for a game. Barton already thought he was a raging nerd; he didn’t need solid proof of it. 

“Nothing to do about it now, buddy boy,” he mumbled to himself as he dug a box of pizza rolls out of the fridge and stuck them in the toaster oven. Couldn’t he do _anything_ right tonight?

Once the food was ready, Phil grabbed two cans of Coke and ran upstairs, still in his filthy socks and sweaty practice jersey. There were grass stains on his elbows and knees, and he knew he smelled like a giant arm pit. Not actually the ideal condition to be stuck in a room with Barton.

With a sigh, Phil pushed the door to his room open with his shoulder. He braced himself for Barton’s inevitable sneering judgement. 

He didn’t expect to find Barton sitting cross-legged on the floor by the bed, his leather quiver sitting out in front of him as he carefully and methodically checked each and every arrow. Barton’s fingers danced over the tips like they were made of glass.

Phil cleared his throat. “I have pizza rolls.”

Barton looked up and blinked. “Really?” he asked. “I didn’t think—”

“I never eat these things, they’re gross,” Phil said as he shoved the plate in front of him, along with the can of Coke. It was only a partial lie; Phil only ate them when there was no other food in the house. He still didn’t want Barton thinking he went to any trouble for him.

“At least you get junk food,” Barton mumbled under his breath before inhaling two whole pizza rolls. He closed his eyes and groaned low as he chewed. “Fuck, those are good. Haven’t eaten all day.”

Phil wanted to make a comment about how he didn’t need to see Barton’s orgasm face over pizza rolls, only he couldn’t quite make himself say it out loud. He found himself staring at the slick curve of Barton’s lower lip as he licked the grease from his fingers, and suddenly the room felt very close and stuffy. “Are you missing dinner?” he asked, just to have something to say as he pulled off his dirty socks and dumped the contents of his backpack over his bed.

Barton snorted. “We don’t do dinner a lot at my—where I live.”

“Your foster mom doesn’t cook?”

“She works late,” was all Barton said. He snuck another pizza roll—his fifth, Phil was fairly certain—and then started gently slipping each arrow back into his quiver. It was a weird, slightly hypnotic process; Barton handled each one with a surgeon’s care, and when he closed the flap he pressed his hand over the leather like he’d just tucked a kid into bed for the night.

Phil must have been more exhausted than he thought. He scrubbed a hand over his face and wrinkled his nose when he smelled dirt and grass. “I really need a damn shower,” he mumbled.

“Yeah, you do kinda look like shit,” Barton said casually. It pissed Phil off probably more than it should have, but he was tired and dirty and irritated that he couldn’t seem to stop staring at Barton’s hands and his mouth while Barton apparently thought Phil looked disgusting. 

“Hey, guess what, I don’t care what you think, you’re not here to smell me,” Phil said.

“I don’t care if you care. Shocker.” Barton set his quiver aside and flopped back on the carpet. “How’s this gonna work, anyway? Can’t we just, I don’t know, divvy the work up so we don’t actually have to hang out?”

Phil glowered at the pile of Fury’s notes spread out across his bed. “Sorry it’s such a hardship to be in my house and eat my food,” he snipped, ignoring the part where Barton’s t-shirt had ridden up slightly, showing off a strip of smooth skin.

“Just sayin’, it’s not like this is a picnic for you, either. We could just email each other ideas.”

“Ideas?” Phil barked out a laugh and flailed his hands at the mess of random crap Fury had left them with. “The guy’s been trying to plan this summer camp for like five years. He’s got very specific things he wants. Our ideas mean jack at this point.”

Barton sat up and frowned. “You’re saying you don’t have anything you want to add? At all?”

“What, like you do?”

“Well, yeah.” He climbed on his knees across the carpet and grabbed a battered magazine article from one of the piles. “What if we gave out awards for overall sportsmanship, or something? That way kids in the smaller sports could still participate even if there’s only like three people on their team. And I’m not saying we give out trophies or anything, but maybe a shirt with their name and a jersey number on it? Way cooler than some stupid plastic thing that’ll just sit and get dusty.”

“You’ve...really been thinking about this,” Phil said.

Barton’s shoulders hunched. “It’s what I’d want if I were going to a camp like this,” he replied.

Against his better judgement, Phil said, “What else were you thinking about?”

Barton chewed his lip for a second. “Clinics,” he said. “One-on-ones. Kids like that mentoring shit. And maybe we can get a bunch of the varsity players to come and do like an exhibition game for them.”

Phil rummaged through the piles and produced a pen and a notebook. “Wait, go back to the personalized jerseys…,” he said, scribbling frantically.

The next thing he knew, his hand was starting to cramp and he had two pages of notes—and almost all of them were Barton’s ideas. 

“Wow, I didn’t think we’d get this far.” Phil laughed sheepishly.

Barton shrugged, sprawled out on the floor with different camp brochures scattered around him. “Rather do this than get benched.” His cell phone rang, and Barton rolled over onto his back as he dug it out of his pocket. He glanced at the screen and made a goofy little grin. “Hey, Katey-Kat, what’s up?” he answered, his voice going all soft and affectionate.

Phil stared down at his notes.

“Naw, I’m at Coulson’s, we’re almost done, thank God. Can you come pick me up?” There was a pause, and Barton huffed loudly. “Fine, okay—Coulson, Kate says hi.” He rolled his eyes.

“Hi, Kate,” Phil mumbled, drawing random doodles in the margins of his notebook. 

“Yeah, he said hi, happy now? So you’ll come by? I’ll just wait outside for you—314 Springwood—the big fancy one with the red door. Awesome, you’re the best.” Barton hung up and jumped to his feet, slinging his backpack, bow and quiver over his shoulder like he couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

“When do you want to meet again?” Phil said just as Barton got to the doorway.

He sighed and tipped his head back. “I dunno, Coulson, whenever. But we’re done for tonight.” 

“Maybe we could go to your place next time.”

Barton burst out laughing. “Right! That’s so not happening in this century.” He shook his head and disappeared down the hall, calling, “We’ll stick with your fancy-ass house, how ‘bout that, Weasel?”

Phil didn’t answer. He couldn’t exactly flip Barton off when he was already gone.

~

Somehow or another, they grudgingly worked out a schedule. Fury wanted bi-weekly updates of their progress, and after the first two weeks they presented him with what was basically Phil’s notes of Barton’s brainstorming. Fury looked it over, grunted, and said, “See you in another two weeks, gentlemen.”

Phil didn’t know what the hell Fury wanted. He never gave any feedback or comments. It was as if Phil and Barton were being left to their own devices and pray to God Fury didn’t eventually lose his shit.

It hardly seemed worth it. Barton would show up at Phil’s house once a week, usually on Thursday evenings, and for an hour they’d either argue over ideas or sit in silence while jotting things down. Barton would thrust his notes at Phil on his way out, leaving Phil to read over everything afterwards and be reluctantly impressed.

The guy really _had_ been thinking things through, and he knew exactly how to map his thoughts out. If Phil was being really honest, he’d even admit Barton was a good writer.

After the fourth week, when Barton had run out Phil’s front door after calling Natasha to come pick him up, Phil’s mom had come up to his room and said, “I’m pleased you two haven’t murdered each other yet. This group project thing seems to be going well.”

Phil had shrugged, still reading over Barton’s detailed plan for a cross-team “buddy” system to get kids learning about other sports while making new friends. “I guess.”

“Are you finally starting to see Clint as friend material?” she’d asked.

Again, he’d shrugged without glancing up. He wasn’t going to tell her that Barton still called him Weasel at school. Granted, the taunting had died down a lot, but Phil didn’t trust that to last. The unspoken, tentative truce between them was so fragile, pretty much anything could shatter it.

Phil tried not to think about it too much. It didn’t help his stress levels, which were at an all-time high these days with a possible regional championship coming up and mid-term exams looming.

The following Thursday brought a torrential downpour, complete with thunder and lightning. Practice was canceled for all outdoor sports, and the weight room was flooded with guys trying to get a workout in. Phil hated fighting for equipment time, so he went looking for Barton to ask if they could start their meeting early. 

It was times like these that Phil wished they’d traded cell phone numbers. But Phil was paranoid Barton would prank call him at random hours, and Barton seemed to think giving Phil his number was almost insulting. Yet Phil had to admit texting Barton would have been much easier than picking his way through the locker room, looking like an idiot as he awkwardly asked around for Barton’s whereabouts.

“What about Kate?” Phil asked one of the archers. “Is she around?”

“She had a dentist appointment this afternoon,” the girl replied. 

Great. Phil’s other option was to track down Natasha; she was the only other person in Barton’s circle of friends that Phil felt remotely comfortable approaching. But he had no clue what she got up to after school. With a sigh, Phil muttered, “Screw it,” under his breath and dashed out into the rain toward his car. He’d just have to wait around until seven for Barton to show up like usual.

Even with his wipers on high, Phil could barely see through the downpour. The gutters were beginning to overflow, spilling out onto the streets. Phil slowed to a stop at an intersection just as a truck sped by and sprayed a huge wave of water across Phil’s car. 

“Asshole!” Phil yelled at the retreating taillights. What if he’d been on the sidewalk? Anyone walking outside would have been instantly soaked—if they weren’t already drenched from the rain. Phil shook his head in disgust, and he was just about to ease back into traffic when he saw a blurry figure of someone walking along the street about a block ahead. As Phil drove closer, he could make out the distinct outline of a bow and quiver case.

Jesus, Barton was out walking in this stuff? Phil pulled up beside him and rolled the passenger side window down. “Barton! What the fuck are you doing?”

Barton visibly startled, then ducked his head down to peer inside Phil’s car. He jerked his soaked hoodie off his head. “Walkin’ home, what’s it look like?” he yelled over the roar of the storm.

“Your arrows are getting wet,” Phil pointed out dumbly, knowing full well Barton was aware of this fact. 

“No shit, Sherlock. Can’t be helped.” He pulled his hood back up and started back down the sidewalk. A bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, followed by a loud crack of thunder.

Phil knew he should let Barton do whatever the hell he wanted, that it wasn’t his business. But he simply wasn’t the type of person to let someone walk home in a thunderstorm. He followed after Barton, ignoring the rain streaking into his car. “Barton! You dumbass, get the car!”

Barton stopped walking. His shoulders drooped a little, like he was honestly debating with himself whether or not to take Phil’s offer.

A second later, he was slamming the door closed. He threw his water-logged backpack into Phil’s back seat, but kept his bow and quiver in his lap.

“Thanks,” Barton mumbled as he wiped a hand over his face. Water dripped off the ends of his hair, trailed down his cheeks like tears.

“I thought you always got a ride after practice,” Phil said. He wasn’t sure why he had such an accusatory tone in his voice.

“I do, but Nat’s sick and Kate’s at the dentist and everyone else has a life. Happy?” Barton looked out the window. He gave a slight shiver. Phil turned on the heat.

“Since we both got out early, I was—looking to see if you wanted to meet early,” he said.

Barton sniffed. He shifted his feet and Phil could hear the wet _squelch_ of his socks. “Fine.” Then, softer, “I...should get some dry clothes. Can’t be _molding_ all over your nice house.”

Immediately, Phil remembered his comment from a few years back, when Barton had come into class soaked to the bone. His chest gave a tight squeeze; looking back on it, he also remembered how miserable Barton had looked, and how he’d curled into himself when everyone had laughed. At the time Phil had felt hateful satisfaction, but now…

“I can stop by your house, if you want,” Phil said hesitantly, knowing how Barton tended to avoid the subject.

Barton’s face screwed up into a weird combination of a wince and a sneer. He rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes. “Yeah, okay. But you’re not coming inside.”

“Gee, I’m heartbroken,” Phil snarked almost automatically as he pulled away from the curb. A part of him was terribly curious about where Barton lived and why he never wanted to talk about it. 

Barton rattled off the address, and Phil silently acknowledged that it wasn’t in the best part of town. Not the worst, but definitely not an area Phil went through very much. “I think I took karate lessons at studio near that block as a kid,” he said.

“I think that place is a dive bar now,” Barton said. “And you had karate lessons? Guess they didn’t really take, huh.” 

Phil bristled at the reference to their fight—another topic they never discussed—but when he glanced over, Barton gave him a smirk that somehow didn’t seem all that malicious. “It was only for a year. I was like six,” Phil replied.

“Six or not, I’d ask for a refund.”

“It’s not like you’re a pro MMA fighter or anything.”

“I can throw a decent punch.”

“Uh, karate isn’t just about throwing punches? And your punches are shitty.”

“Who had the black eye?”

“We _both_ did.”

Barton shrugged. “Yours was worse, Weasel,” he said airily.

Phil passed a knuckle under his eye where the bruise was all but faded completely. “Congratulations, you got lucky.”

“I didn’t get anything, I— _fuck, stop the car._ ” Barton’s hand shot out and grabbed Phil’s arm, hard enough to make Phil hiss in pain.

“What the hell, Barton—”

“Fuck, oh, fuck, oh, _shit_ , just stop, now!” He scrambled out of his seatbelt before Phil could pull over. 

Phil couldn’t see anything through the rain. “Barton, what’s wrong?”

“Lucky,” he breathed, tumbling out of the car and into the downpour. Phil watched, wide-eyed, as Barton ran into the street; they were in a residential neighborhood, so there wasn’t any traffic to speak of, and Barton suddenly dropped to his knees beside a lump Phil couldn’t quite make out.

“Shit,” Phil growled, and put the car in park. He grabbed the slightly broken umbrella he kept in the glove compartment and got out, swearing loudly again as cold rain hit him in the face. He jogged over to Barton, telling himself he was only going to tell the moron to get his ass back to the car before he drowned.

He didn’t expect to find Barton hunched over the body of yellow Lab, quietly freaking out.

“No, no, no, c’mon, boy, c’mon, you’re okay, c’mon, you’re fine, you’re—” Barton’s voice caught, his hands petting over the dog’s head. It wasn’t moving at all. 

Phil crouched down beside him. Barton’s shoulders were starting to shake, and the rain had plastered his hair against his forehead. “Is this your dog?” Phil asked.

“It’s—his name’s Lucky,” Barton whispered, barely audible over the rain. He sounded like he might be crying, but Phil couldn’t be sure; Barton’s face was already soaking wet. “He’s—he’s mine, yeah, he’s mine, fuck.” His fingers curled into Lucky’s wet fur, and he shook the dog, yelling, “Damn it, c’mon! You know better than to run into traffic!”

Very slowly, so subtle Phil almost missed it, Lucky’s tail thumped once against the pavement.

Barton made a choked sound. “ _Fuck_ , oh god, he’s still—” He covered his mouth, his head bowed like he was forcing himself not to break down. Phil looked away, not sure at all what he was supposed to do.

He heard Barton ask in a terribly small voice, “Help me.”

Phil’s head snapped up. “You want me to—how?”

“There’s a—an emergency clinic like ten minutes away. We have to take him there.”

Emergency veterinary clinics cost money. Phil knew Barton didn’t have much. “Barton…”

“Just _do it_ , okay? I can’t—he’s—” The words cracked around something awful, and Phil found that he didn’t want to know Barton could sound that, all wrecked and desperate and lost. It made an ache open up in Phil’s chest, one he didn’t— _couldn’t_ —define. 

This dog meant everything to Barton. Phil wouldn’t be the one to take that away from him.

He stood up and closed the shitty umbrella, shoving it in the waistband of his practice shorts. “Help me get him in the car,” Phil said.

Barton looked up him with wide blue eyes, rain clinging to his eyelashes. He sniffed, swiped the wet sleeve of his hoodie over his nose, and gave a jerky nod. His hands shook as he got to his feet, and between the two of them they managed to lift Lucky as gingerly as possible. Phil could hear the dog make a low whimpering sound, which in turn made Barton sniff again.

They laid him across the back seat; Lucky was a fairly big dog, and he barely fit the width of Phil’s Corolla. Barton kept his hand on Lucky’s flank the entire way to the clinic, whispering, “You’re gonna be okay, dude,” over and over. 

The receptionist took one look at two sopping wet boys carrying a very injured, equally sopping wet Lab through the front doors of the clinic and immediately called for the doctor. Within minutes, Lucky was whisked into the emergency room, leaving a very unhappy Barton behind.

“Look, can’t I stay with him?” he begged. Water dripped off every inch of him, trailing puddles everywhere as he paced the lobby.

The vet tech smiled reassuringly at him. “Lucky is in good hands, Clint. But he’ll need to stay overnight, if not two nights at the least.”

Barton huffed out a loud breath. “Okay. All right. So can I stay here?”

She patted his arm. “He’ll be fine. Go home and dry off. You’ll both catch your death running around like drowned rats.”

Phil reached out and plucked at Barton’s hoodie. “Come on,” he said. Barton was starting to shiver again.

They went out to Phil’s car and sat in silence for several minutes while the rain pounded against the hood. Phil was beginning to feel miserably uncomfortable in his wet clothes, but he could only imagine how Barton felt.

Eventually Barton bowed his head and whispered, “I don’t know how I’m gonna pay for this. Terrance is gonna fucking kill me.” He sounded as if he were speaking to himself, not Phil.

“Is that your foster dad?” Phil asked. “Did he give you Lucky?”

The laugh Barton made was more like a sob. “Yes and most definitely fucking no,” he said, cupping both hands over his face. “No one...no one knows about Lucky,” he added, words slightly muffled.

Phil sat back in his seat. “He wouldn’t just let you keep him?”

“Let’s just say Terrance isn’t a big fan of giving me stuff I want.”

“Oh.” _Well, fuck._

“Yeah.” Barton sighed heavily. “But I couldn’t just—leave him there, you know?”

Phil swallowed, unable to look away from Barton’s painfully open expression. He found himself wanting to say something, _anything_ to make Barton not look so defeated. It was a sudden, scary thought; this guy didn’t give a shit about Phil, and yet Phil wanted to comfort him? All because of a dog?

“Maybe they’ll let you set up a payment plan,” Phil said.

“Sure. With the money I make, I’ll have it paid off when I’m fifty.” Barton groaned and punched his fist against the door. “It’s not like asking Laurie for a raise would help, not when—” He stopped, hand pressed against the window, eyes going wide.

Phil frowned. “What?” It was hard not to stare at the way the rain had caused Barton’s eyelashes to clump together, making them look all delicate like a girl’s.

“I—” Barton started digging into his backpack, until finally he produced his cell phone. He dialed a number Phil couldn’t see, mumbling, “C’mon, be there, please.” A few seconds later, Barton flushed a bright red as he said, “Laurie? Hi, it’s Clint. I, um...I have a situation I was wondering if I could, uh, talk to you about?” He slumped down in his seat. “Yeah, it’s about Lucky…”

Phil sat by and awkwardly listened to Barton work out a system with his boss to help pay for Lucky’s treatment. He would be working weekends for the next several months.

When Barton hung up, Phil said, quietly, “Aren’t a lot of your meets on Saturdays?”

Barton didn’t say anything as he put his phone back in his bag. 

“You’d give that up for a dog?”

He tugged at the flap of his quiver case. “Take me back home, Coulson. I gotta get changed.”

~

The rain had stopped by the time Phil pulled up in front of a worn two-story house with a dilapidated picket fence around the front yard. The mailbox was covered in duct tape.

“I’ll only be like five minutes,” Barton was saying as he grabbed his stuff. 

Phil shook his head. “Just...we can hold off this week. Don’t worry about it.”

Barton went very still, watching Phil like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. “You’re sure?” he asked slowly. “We gotta have something to show Fury tomorrow.”

“I’ll think of something.”

“Don’t...tell anyone. About this. About Lucky.” Barton’s voice dropped into a whisper again. Then he met Phil’s eyes and said, even softer, “Please?”

Phil’s heart gave a weird flutter. He felt breathless for a moment. “I won’t tell anyone,” he whispered back, and suddenly the air in the car felt very heavy.

Barton licked his lower lip. He started to say something more, but abruptly closed his mouth. He gathered up his things and got out of the car, slamming the door closed without looking back. 

Phil stayed until he saw Barton disappeared into the house. His car still smelled of wet dog.

~

Lucky was gonna be okay. Clint had to remind himself of this again and again, just to make it real. He’d spent twenty-four sleepless hours waiting for the clinic to call him and say Lucky was gone, sorry kid, where would you like the body? But when the call had come saying Lucky had pulled through and would be ready to come home that afternoon, Clint had skipped his chemistry class to go hide in a storage closet and cry. He’d refused to cry at all since he’d made an embarrassing ass of himself in front of Coulson, and he’d be damned if he let it happen again.

God, Coulson. Clint didn’t begin to know what to do about that situation. It was bad enough he’d gone to pieces, but now Coulson knew about Lucky, _and_ knew where Clint lived. He had leverage on Clint, could use it to his advantage to get Clint in serious trouble. All Clint could do was wait for the shit to hit the fan and watch Coulson gloat about it.

And yet, nothing happened. After Clint had been reassured that Lucky would be fine—although he needed to take it easy for a week or so, which meant Clint was going to have to get creative on finding a place for Lucky to stay—and he’d composed himself enough to go back to class, Coulson found him in the halls.

“How’s...your friend?” Coulson asked, low and quiet, leaning in close so only Clint could hear. Clint blinked at him, startled that Coulson was trying to keep their secret a, well, secret.

“He’s—good.” Clint felt a little off balance, having just finished a crying jag next to a shelf of cleaning supplies. “He’s, uh, coming home tonight.”

“Seriously? That’s awesome.” Coulson smiled, and it looked genuine, real. Like he actually cared about Clint and his lug of a dog. Clint didn’t like it; it made him feel all fidgety and his skin itch. 

Worst of all, it...kind of made Clint want to kiss him.

Fuck, he _really_ needed to get some fucking sleep. 

“Yeah, so, anyway. Thanks.” Clint hugged his arms around his chest, tearing his gaze away from Coulson’s stupidly pretty eyes. 

“You’re welcome.” Coulson suddenly looked uncomfortable, probably because they were talking like they were friends or something and it was weird. Coulson’s t-shirt had a hole in the bottom hem and he kept playing with it, twisting the material around his fingers. “Where’s L—your friend staying while he, um, recuperates?”

“I don’t know. I’ll probably get my boss to put him up for a while.” He’d already asked Laurie for too much, but it was the only thing Clint could think of. The shelter had a few empty kennels, and technically Lucky was stray…

The thought made Clint’s stomach ache. What if someone came in and wanted to adopt him? It wasn’t like Clint could say no. He didn’t have any legal claim to Lucky.

He hadn’t noticed that Coulson had stepped closer to him, that he was touching the back of Clint’s elbow. “What is it?” he asked in this soft, soothing tone Clint had never heard before. 

Clint jerked back, heart pounding. Since when could Coulson read him like that? And when did he decide he could fucking _touch_ Clint? “Nothing. It’s none of your fucking business,” Clint growled.

Coulson’s cheeks went faintly pink and his mouth twisted to one side. For a moment he looked hurt, and that horrible, stupid need to kiss him came rushing back to Clint. It made him want to get as far away from Coulson as possible.

Clint turned and sprinted down the hall toward class, biting his lip against the urge to apologize.


	4. Chapter 4

Lucky made the transition from the clinic to the shelter without a problem. He even woofed at Clint when he was all tucked into his kennel with a clean, soft blanket and a fresh pan of water. Clint could empathize; sometimes getting new digs was nice.

Unfortunately, Laurie wouldn’t let him spend the night in a sleeping bag by Lucky. “You can stay until ten,” she told him Saturday evening. “But after that you need to head home. I don’t want your parents worrying about you, thinking I’m some slave driver.”

Clint didn’t correct her. It was better to let her think he had people worrying about him. He smiled when she patted his arm and told her he’d lock up when he left.

Lucky slept soundly, his breathing quiet and even. The vet had told Clint he’d broken a couple ribs, but that Lucky’s main problem had been the shock of hitting his head against the oncoming car. Clint hadn’t wanted a detailed explanation of Lucky’s injuries. His dog was alive. That was all that mattered.

It was worth giving up Saturday meets and getting an extremely disapproving look from his coach when Clint had informed him he’d taken on more work hours. “What gives, Barton?” he’d asked. “You’re captain. You live and breath this sport.”

“Need the cash,” Clint had replied, thankful it wasn’t a lie. 

Curled up next to Lucky’s kennel with one hand pressed against his soft muzzle, Clint knew he’d made the best choice, the _only_ choice. He was willing to live with the sacrifices.

Sacrifices also meant consequences, which greeted Clint the moment he snuck in the back door at ten-thirty. The kitchen light was on.

Margo sat at the dining table, and standing behind her with his arms crossed, looking ready to fight, was Terrance.

Every organ in Clint’s body turned to ice.

“Where the hell have you been?” Terrance demanded. His sounded completely sober. 

“I…was out. At work.” Clint tried desperately to keep his face neutral.

Terrance smirked. “Work? At ten-thirty in the goddamn night? Try again, hotshot.”

Clint didn’t understand what was going on, but whatever it was, he was fucked. His fosters had never once commented on him keeping late hours; something was wrong. “I don’t—”

Margo sighed. “Clint, the emergency veterinary clinic called. They were checking up on Lucky to make sure he’d made it home alright.” She shook her head. “Who’s Lucky? Why were you at a vet clinic?”

The ice in Clint’s veins quickly melted as panic set in. He’d been forced to provide a secondary number to his cell when he’d filled out the admitting paperwork; writing down the house number was a last minute decision. He’d never thought for a second they’d actually _call_. “I can explain—”

“You sure as hell will!” Terrance said, slamming his hand against the table. “Do you have any fucking idea how much those places cost? They said you’d left a dog there overnight! Just how the fuck were you plannin’ on paying for all this?”

Clint swallowed. “I’m gonna pay for it myself, I _swear_ —”

“Yourself? Really? With what, your stupid little after school job? And don’t even get me started on how neither one of us said you could have a damn _dog_ in the first place.”

Margo touched Terrance’s arm. “Terry, calm down—”

“No, I’m sick of this shit. After all we give to this little punk, he still has to run around adopting random fucking animals and racking up giant vet bills.” He stormed across the room and got right up in Clint’s face, the bulk of him looming like an angry, dark cloud. “D’you know how much your dog’s bill is, Clint?”

“N-no, sir, I—”

“No, ‘cause you didn’t even care. Over a thousand dollars—thirteen hundred dollars and sixty-three cents, to be fucking exact. D’you wanna know how much of that we’ve got at the moment?” Terrance shoved Clint’s shoulders, hard, making him stumble back against the kitchen counter. “ _Zero fucking dollars_ , that’s how much!”

“Terry!” Margo stood up from the table, but Clint knew it was a lost cause. Drunk or not, Terrance never listened to her.

“You’re gonna send us into debt because of some _mutt_. I should send _you_ to the fucking shelter to live, since you’re basically the same goddamn thing—a worthless, mangy mutt.” 

Clint sensed the punch was coming before it happened. And because archery had perfected his reflexes, he caught Terrance’s fist right before it hit his face.

Terrance snorted and threw his left fist instead. This time, it connected. 

Margo screamed.

He realized in that moment that the fight with Coulson had been nothing. Clint had never truly been punched until now. He was aware of pain screaming through his jaw, of his right eye watering. He couldn’t breathe.. His back hit the edge of the counter again with the force of Terrance’s hit, and Clint stood there, stunned, one hand pressed against his cheek and the other trying to keep himself upright. Margo was suddenly at his side, murmuring things at him. 

“Sweetie, go outside and work on that bike of yours,” she said, steering him toward the freezer and quickly wrapping a handful of ice in a dish towel. “Put that on your eye to stop the swelling. Go on.”

Clint staggered out the door, but never made it to the shed where the Harley was stored. His legs gave out and he collapsed on the back steps. He put his head on his knees, closed his eyes and threw the ice away. 

He could hear Margo yelling at Terrance, calling him all sorts of names. _Bully_ was one of them.

“He’s just a kid, Terry. You don’t hit kids!” she cried.

“He’s almost seventeen,” Terrance said. He sounded out of breath. Clint wondered if his knuckles hurt at all.

“You’re going to go out there and apologizing to him. You know he didn’t deserve that. If he says he’s going to pay for those vet bills, let him. It’s not like he put us down as co-signers on a loan.”

Terrance didn’t say anything. 

Clint, like a fucking idiot, waited.

Terrance never came outside. Eventually Clint heard the screen door open and Margo say, “There’s macaroni in the microwave if you’re hungry.” She added, almost in a whisper, “He’s sorry, Clint. He really is.”

He wanted to believe her. 

Clint sat curled up on the back porch well into the night. More than ever, he missed his dog.

~

Monday morning came like any other, except most Mondays didn’t start with Phil’s mom heading out the door at dawn to catch a flight to Boston. She would be gone until Friday evening, leaving Phil home alone for five days. The Murphys next door and The Hendricks across the street had a standing agreement with his mom to check in on Phil periodically, but for the most part Phil was pretty self-sufficient. 

“You’ve got plenty of food, right?” she’d asked on Sunday as she took inventory of the pantry. “I don’t want to come back and find six empty boxes of Pop Tarts in the trash.”

Phil had rolled his eyes. “I’ll be fine. I’m the one that can cook, remember?” He wasn’t going to remind her that she’d be missing his big game on Wednesday; she didn’t need the guilt trip. 

Still, he felt a bit bereft as he sat through homeroom. Phil never liked to call it loneliness, because he had no reason to feel lonely. He had tons of friends who’d hang out with him if he asked, and the Murphys fed him dinner some nights and always let Phil watch movies on their projection screen. Phil didn’t have to be alone if he didn’t want to be. 

It’s just that sometimes he hated knowing he was coming home to an empty house.

The bell rang for the end of first period, and Phil considered asking Steve if he could spend the night at his place. Steve’s grandma made the greatest chocolate chip cookies ever, and also didn’t care if Steve and his friends stayed up until all hours playing video games. Phil had a lot of great memories of sleepovers at Steve’s house that consisted of marathon sessions of Halo and Grand Theft Auto—and also Mario Kart, since Steve had a fondness for his Wii.

Phil was about to text Steve about future plans when he happened to glance down the hall and see Barton leaning against his locker, one arm slung over the door. His head was bowed, and he looked utterly exhausted.

There was also an angry purple bruise across his cheek, darker and uglier than anything he’d gotten from their fight.

Phil came to a full stop, teeth clenched. He’d never admit in a billion years that he’d spent all weekend thinking about what had happened last Thursday, or the weird moment between them on Friday when Phil had forgotten himself and acted like Barton wanted his sympathy. He didn’t want anything from Phil. 

But Phil knew one of his secrets now, even if it was mostly by happenstance. Whether Phil liked it or not, Barton— _Clint_ —was human. And because of this, it made ignoring him that much harder.

It was probably suicide to try to talk him after...everything. Phil hated the stupid tug of hurt he felt each time he remembered Clint hissing at him that it was all none of his business, which it wasn’t. Phil didn’t need to get involved. He didn’t—he _shouldn’t_ give a shit. 

He’d make it quick, just ask how Lucky was doing. Something innocent and unassuming. Clint seemed okay with talking about his dog’s health; it was only when Phil touched him that he—

Whatever. Phil knew better. It wouldn’t happen again.

He still held his breath as he approached Clint’s locker. “Hey,” he said, low and careful.

Clint looked up from under his lashes without raising his head. Phil’s heart pumped faster. “What do you want, Weasel?” he asked. Just as Phil suspected, he sounded tired as hell, all his sharp edges worn down.

Phil curled both hands around the strap of his backpack. “How’s your—friend doing?”

“Fine.” Clint rubbed his face against his arm.

“Did you get him to the shelter okay?”

“Yeah.” Up close, Clint’s bruise was much worse. Someone had hit him pretty hard. Phil’s stomach lurched as he thought about who it could’ve been, and why. 

Apparently Phil had been staring at Clint’s fresh black eye for too long. Clint glared at him and asked, sharper this time, “Seriously, what the fuck do you want?”

“What happened?” Phil whispered abruptly. 

He didn’t expect Clint’s face to crumple before completely shutting down altogether. He slammed his locker shut and said, “I ran into a door.” Clint flicked his index finger against Phil’s chest, just hard enough to sting. “Now beat it, Weasel. Fuck off.”

Phil swallowed and didn’t move. “If—if he hit you, if your—you should tell someone,” he said.

Something flickered in Clint’s eyes, but Phil couldn’t begin to decipher it. “Don’t pretend you give a shit. We’re not friends. You don’t know anything.” 

“I know enough,” Phil said. He gripped his bag more tightly.

“Yeah? What are you gonna do, huh? Pretend you’re Captain America, give me some touchy-feely bullshit about how things’ll get better?”

“I…I’m just saying—”

Clint leaned in close until they were almost nose to nose. Phil held his breath. “You have _no_ idea what it’s like to be me, and you never will.”

He was right, of course; they didn’t have anything in common at all. Phil didn’t even know why he was bothering to get Clint to talk to him.

And yet, he still heard himself say, “It won’t get better if you don’t let someone help.”

Clint smirked. “Leave me alone,” he said in a quiet little mean voice. Phil waited for a shove, a punch to the shoulder, something.

For one split second, Clint’s gaze dropped to Phil’s mouth. 

Phil didn’t move, didn’t say a word. His heart had suddenly jumped into his throat. 

Clint squeezed his eyes shut and whispered, “Fuck.” He turned and walked off down the hall, shoulders hunched, like it was Phil who’d somehow hit him.

~

Two days went by, and Phil tried his best not think about anything pertaining to Clint Barton. He had a game Wednesday afternoon that would determine the course of the rest of the season; Phil couldn’t afford to let stupid things like a jerk with a black eye distract him. 

Much to his chagrin, Phil noticed when Clint wasn’t at school on Wednesday. But he wasn’t going to say a damn thing about it, except he happened to see Natasha in the library after lunch.

He sat down across from where she was primly reading a giant book on World War I and said, “Uh, hi, Natasha?”

She blinked slowly, then raised her head, brushing her hair out of her eyes. “Hello,” she said with polite smile. “What can I do for you, Phil?” Her accent skittered along each word, graceful and light.

Phil bit his lip. Natasha always seemed far more mature than everyone else in their grade; Phil tended to feel slightly awkward and young around her. “I was wondering—have you seen Clint today?”

Natasha tilted her head to the side. “Why? Is he in trouble?”

“No. I mean, I don’t think so.” 

“Did you two have another fight?”

“What?” Phil spluttered. “No, no. We’re—no, nothing like that. It’s just…” It suddenly dawned on him that Natasha probably didn’t know anything about Lucky, considering how insistent Clint had been on Phil keeping him a secret. But she was one of Clint’s best friends, and possibly more than that...right? Surely Clint would have told her something. 

Phil sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Look, have you ever been to Clint’s house?”

Natasha went very still, carefully lowering her eyes back to her book. “Yes. I drive him to school most days.”

“Did you pick him up this morning?”

“No. He texted me and said he wanted to walk,” she said. Then, she added softly, “I know about Terrance, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

The strangest combination of relieved jealousy flared up inside him. He wanted to know how much she knew, if Clint had told her freely or she’d learned it all by accident—like him. “Do you know about Lucky?” he asked.

She frowned at him. “Lucky?”

So she didn’t know everything. Phil knew logically that it wasn’t his place to share Clint’s secrets, but he’d obviously confided in Natasha. She deserved to know. 

Phil told her about the week before, about finding Lucky in the rain, the vet clinic, and Clint giving up his Saturday meets. He told her his suspicions about Clint’s black eye.

Natasha’s mouth had formed a tight line by the time Phil was done talking. “He’d told me his bow had malfunctioned during practice. I wonder what excuse he gave Kate,” she said.

“Someone needed to know,” Phil said, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders. “You guys are his friends, I figured—”

“You could be friends with him, too, you know. With Clint, it’s very…” She trailed off, a sad look in her eyes. “He’s...careful. Sometimes kindness scares him.”

Phil winced. “I’m hardly kind to him.”

“You’re a naturally kind person. Why would you be here telling me these things?”

“I’m not, I’m—” 

“You helped save his dog.”

“That’s—anyone would have done that.” Phil ducked his head, hating the hot blush he felt in his cheeks.

Natasha smiled. “Not everyone, believe me.” She leaned across the table and put a hand on Phil’s arm. “I’ll talk to him. I didn’t know about Lucky, but it doesn’t surprise me—Clint does so love animals.”

Phil started to thank her, but it felt weird to say out loud. “Don’t tell him I told you,” he replied instead.

“You mean, don’t mention that you actually care about him,” Natasha said.

Phil huffed and got up from his chair. “I _mean_ , he’ll kick my ass when he finds out I told his secret.”

She waved her hand. “You’ll learn that Clint is entirely all bark and no bite.”

“Um, he punched me in the face once. Pretty sure that constitutes biting.”

“ _I’ve_ punched _him_ in the face before, and yet I adore him with all my heart. As my mother likes to say, love is all relative.”

 _No one’s talking about love here_ , Phil thought as his stomach swooped. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and gave a dorky little wave. “Anyway, so—see you around, Natasha.”

“Call me Nat,” she said in her lovely accent, apparently oblivious to Phil nearly crashing into a cart full of books on his way out of the library.

~

Clint woke up at six in the morning on Wednesday and remembered Terrance was away on a job and Margo was off at an all-day training session two hours out of town. The house would be empty until late that evening.

So he’d texted Nat— _Gonna walk today, thx_ —and went back to sleep. And he slept well into the afternoon. It was the first really sleep he’d had in days. 

When he came to at around four-thirty, Clint rolled over and grabbed his phone. There were five text messages, three of them from Nat.

 _Call me_ , they all read. There was also one from Kate, which basically said the exact same thing.

He felt bad for making them worry, but at least he felt better and not like a barely functioning zombie. For the past few nights, every time he started to drift off he got paranoid Terrance would storm into his room and start yelling about the vet bill again. It hadn’t been brought up since the weekend, but that didn’t mean the issue wasn’t still festering beneath the surface like an infection. Clint knew how Terrance held grudges.

Clint’s stomach chose that moment to growl with a vengeance. He stretched and yawned as he dialed Nat’s number.

“Hey, gorgeous, wanna get some dinner?” Clint asked the second she answered. He really didn’t have the cash to go out, but fuck it, he deserved some diner food after the week he’d had.

“Where _were_ you? You told me you were walking to school.” Nat sounded genuinely upset, and Clint was instantly contrite.

“Sorry, sorry, I was...I slept through my alarm.”

“All day?” He could see her unamused eyebrow quirk in his head.

“Yeah, all day, it’s—been a rough week. The fosters are away, so I figured I’d take advantage of an empty house, sue me.”

There was a long pause, and finally Nat said, “Speaking of which, we need to talk.” She said the words very carefully, which wasn’t like her at all. Nat never pulled punches with him, ever.

Clint sat down on the edge of his bed. “What is it? Did something happen? Are you okay?” 

“Yes, I’m fine. But...I’m not sure about you.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Nat sighed. “Can I come over? I’ll bring a pizza.”

She was the only person Clint had let into the house, mostly because if Kate saw how sparse Clint’s room was she’d immediately start trying to buy him shit from Ikea or something. He also didn’t need Kate getting into a screaming match with Terrance. Nat never let on about her feelings towards Clint’s fosters, or the house, but he could always tell that both made her unhappy for him.

The fact that she was voluntarily offering to come over meant something was up. 

An hour later Nat arrived with a six pack of Coke and a large cheese pizza. It made Clint ache for Lucky, who had a weird love for the stuff; Clint had never seen a dog inhale pepperoni the way his did. “My very own pizza dog,” he’d murmured to Lucky, who’d happily licked the sauce off his fingers in reply.

He couldn’t tell Nat about any of that, though. Lucky was Clint’s secret, for him alone.

Well, him and Phil. But that was a whole other problem Clint didn’t want to think about.

They sat out on the back porch steps with the pizza box open between them, listening to the early evening crickets chirp. It was one of the things Clint loved most about Nat; she was willing to sit and say nothing at all if he felt like it.

Eventually, after Clint had finished off his second piece, he asked, “So what was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

Nat took a long drink of her Coke, flicking the tab of the can with her thumb. She didn’t look him in the eyes. “Your bruise isn’t from your bow, is it?” she finally said.

Clint’s chest seized up. He managed to keep his hands unclenched. “Why would you ask that? I get fucked up from my bow all the time.”

“Not like this you don’t.” She reached over and skimmed her fingers over the tender patch under his right eye. It didn’t really hurt all that much anymore, but Clint still flinched and ducked away.

“It’s no big deal, Nat, seriously.”

“It _is_ a big deal if your foster dad is hitting you,” she hissed fiercely. “He had _no_ right to lay a hand on you, especially over a dog—”

Clint went very still. “What—h-how’d you know about that?”

Nat huffed out a breath. “It’s not important how I know—”

“Did Coulson tell you?”

“Clint—”

“ _Did_ he?”

“It doesn’t matter! I wish you’d told me about Lucky yourself; then maybe I would have understood why you disappeared for a day after getting such a massive black eye.” 

Clint was torn between wanting to put his arm around Nat and putting his fist through a wall. Of course Phil told her everything, because that was the kind of guy he was. Secrets meant shit to him, especially if they belonged to Clint. 

“Coulson had no fucking business getting you involved with this,” he said through gritted teeth. 

“I’m your best friend, so yes, I _should_ be involved. And Phil came to me because he’s worried about you.”

Clint snorted. “You of all people should know Phil Coulson doesn’t give two shits about me. Even after he promised me, he—” Clint bit the inside of his lip. Why couldn’t Phil do this one thing for him? Why’d he have to screw everything up just to fuck with him?

Nat patted the back of Clint’s hair. “You didn’t see his face,” she said quietly. “If he didn’t give two shits about you, he would have left you alone with Lucky in the rain instead of coming to me to see if you were all right.”

“Stop making this sound like we’re—” Clint bit off the word _friends_ as he scrambled to his feet. “He lied to me.”

“He didn’t tell the whole school about Lucky. Just me.”

“He wasn’t supposed to tell _anyone_ , and now you’ll have to tell Kate, right?”

Nat folded her arms over her chest. “You’re forgetting the part where Terrance punched you. Lucky is not the issue here.”

“There’s nothing you can do about it, Nat! You know this! I have less than a year and half left in foster care; if I rat Terrance out they’ll either ignore it or put me with another douchebag in another town. This is the only time he’s hit me, it’s not—”

“You knew this was coming,” Nat said. She stood up and poked Clint’s bicep. “You knew eventually he’d get angry enough to do something like this.”

Clint shook his head. “I just have to be more careful, ‘s all. And I don’t need Phil fucking Coulson running around telling the world about it.”

“Stop blaming him for this, you know it’s not his fault.”

“It kind of is,” Clint growled, because without Phil, Nat wouldn’t be wasting her time being worried about him. Clint didn’t need another dose of guilt keeping him up at night. 

Fuck Coulson. Fuck him, fuck him, _fuck him_.

“I gotta go.” Clint grabbed his hoodie off the ground by the forgotten pizza box and shrugged it on with sharp, angry movements.

Nat pursed her lips. “Where?”

“To have a different talk.”

Her eyes flared. “Clint, you are not going to Phil’s house, you’re _not_.”

He ignored her and kissed the top of her head, saying, “Thanks for the pizza, babe.” taking off through the back gate. If he ran, he could make it to Phil’s house in twenty minutes.

The adrenaline would make it easier for Clint to kick his weasely little ass.

~

Phil got home from his game a little after seven, worn out but filled with an exhausted vindication. They’d won by the skin of their teeth against an extremely aggressive, roughhouse team. Phil had abrasions on both knees from the sheer amount of blocks he’d had, not to mention the moment during the second half when a particularly hard pass had sent the ball straight at his head. The guy had claimed it wasn’t on purpose, but Phil’s bruised nose begged to differ. 

He dumped his gear in the foyer with a loud sigh, and then it dawned on him for like the millionth time that no one else was home. Phil leaned against staircase banister, his stomach growling pitifully, a reminder that he hadn’t eaten a thing since lunch. Bucky had invited him out for celebratory burgers, but Phil could feel himself having the sort of adrenaline crash where all he wanted was to be alone and decompress. For all the satisfaction he felt from the win, he could still feel remnants of the stress headache he’d had all day lingering like a shadow behind his eyes.

He really, really wished his mom was home.

“Just get in the shower and you’ll be fine,” Phil muttered to himself, dragging his sweaty jersey over his head and tossing it somewhere in the vicinity of the laundry room on his way to the kitchen. He opened the fridge and rested his forehead against the door, shivering as the cool air rushed over his bare skin. There wasn’t much in the way of food except some leftover ravioli and a half empty gallon of orange juice. Phil remembered there was also a pint of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream in the freezer. 

With one shoulder propped against the fridge, he dug into the pint with a giant spoon, frost collecting around his fingers. He thought about calling his mom about his game, but she was on a flight to Toronto and probably hadn’t landed yet. 

“Shower and email,” Phil said to himself around a mouthful of ice cream. If he sent his mom an update before crashing into bed, he was pretty likely to have some goofy ecard waiting for him in the morning. Phil secretly kept a file of all the ecards she’d sent him over the years whenever she was traveling for work.

His spoon was beginning to scrape the bottom of the pint when Phil heard loud banging on the front door. No doorbell ring—just heavy, fast pounding. No one Phil knew knocked like that; Steve and Bucky usually just walked right in, and Pepper always texted him when she was outside. 

Phil’s heart began to race. Something wasn’t right. He set the ice cream on the counter and took two seconds to consider putting a shirt on. If someone was trying to kill him, at least he shouldn’t be half-naked? 

“Fuck it, it’s my house,” he whispered as he squared his shoulders and went to the door. He’d watched too many slasher movies with Steve—now wasn’t the time to be a pussy.

He glanced into the peephole and saw what looked like one very pissed off Clint Barton pacing around the front steps. Phil’s palms started to sweat. What the hell was Clint doing? It wasn’t even Thursday night.

Phil took a deep breath and opened the door. In his calmest, most adult voice, he said, “Barton, what do you want?”

Or at least, that was what he’d planned to say in his calmest, most adult voice. What he actually got out was, “Barton, what—,” before Clint shoved his way into the house with both hands on Phil’s chest.

“You fucking _asshole_ ,” Clint yelled. He pushed hard enough to send Phil stumbling back into the bannister. “You little weasel, where the fuck do you even get off?”

Phil blinked dumbly at him. “Wha—I don’t know what you’re talking about!” He couldn’t think straight through the sharp stab of pain from hitting the hard edge of the bannister, and suddenly having Clint crowded into his space with his eyes all flashing, angry blue and his cheeks flushed. He was breathing hard, and there was a sheen of sweat along his upper lip.

“You’re such a _liar_!” Clint shoved him again, and this time Phil automatically struck back. He pushed with all his weight, enough to slip free from where Clint had him caged against the stairs.

“Tell me what the hell you’re going on about, Barton. You can’t just barge in here and start screaming at me when I didn’t even—”

Clint’s eyes narrowed, his expression darkening into one of such absolute contempt, Phil almost shivered. “You told Nat,” he said between clenched teeth.

Phil hated the blush that crept up his neck. “Look, it’s not what you think. I didn’t do it to, like, fuck with you, or anything, okay?”

“You _promised_ me!” Clint shouted.

“I didn’t promise you anything! Yeah, fine, I said I wouldn’t tell, but that was before you showed up at school with a black eye from your foster dad!” Phil’s throat was very tight, and his heart felt like it was ready to crawl its way out of his chest. He’d never seen Clint this angry before, not even during their fight. He hoped Clint didn’t try to break his arm in the foyer of his own house.

Clint advanced on him again, shoving him into the wall by the kitchen. He kept one hand braced around Phil’s jaw, while the other kept Phil pinned by the shoulder. 

“What fucking part of ‘it’s none of your business’ do you not _fucking_ get, Weasel?” he hissed, breath hot against Phil’s chin. “You think can just—just involve my friends in this shit? Like you’re in a Disney Channel sitcom or something?”

“I thought Natasha could help you,” Phil said. He jerked his head to the side, trying to get free. Clint tightened his hold. “She wants to help!”

“I don’t _need_ her help! It’s not her problem! It’s no one’s problem, especially yours.”

“But Lucky—”

Clint slammed Phil’s head back into the wall, making him see stars. “Don’t say his name! Don’t you ever say his name again, you got me? You don’t deserve to. You don't deserve anything from me.”

“I don’t want anything from you,” Phil said breathlessly through the pain behind his eyes. “You’re the one who asked me for help first, remember?”

Clint’s mouth twisted up. “I didn’t know what else to do,” he said.

“No matter what you think, I’m not heartless. I don’t leave animals to die in the street. And I don’t—” _I don’t let people suffer when they shouldn’t have to_ , Phil wanted to add, but that wasn’t what Clint wanted to hear. Not from him.

A nasty grin suddenly spread across Clint’s face. He slid his hand up and framed Phil’s jaw with his thumb and index finger. “You must think you’re such hot shit, don’t you? Perfect little Phil Coulson in his perfect rich house. You just love getting to tell everyone what a pathetic wreck I am, don’t you?”

Phil didn’t like the hold Clint had on him. He struggled, used the quickness and strength he’d cultivated through hours of practice and managed to flip their positions. Clint growled as Phil slammed him roughly against the wall, both hands digging bruises into Clint’s shoulders. Unfortunately, Phil was barefoot while Clint was in sneakers; Clint was able to do more damage to Phil’s legs, and what’s more, Clint wasn’t running on low energy reserves after a long, punishing game. Phil was just too exhausted to keep up. And this realization came right as Clint tackled him to the floor.

Phil landed flat on his back, legs trapped between Clint’s knees and his wrists caught above his head. He tried as best he could to fight his way free, but Clint had the advantage. He was bigger, stronger, like always; Phil might as well have been back in eighth grade, skinny and scrawny and desperately hating everything about Clint Barton.

“What the fuck do you want from me?” Phil gasped, too tired to be humiliated by the catch in his voice. “I just—I just wanted to _help_ you, all right? That’s all. You can hate me all you want, but I couldn’t—” He squeezed his eyes shut. Blood roared in his ears. 

He felt the pressure around his wrists tighten a fraction. “I don’t need you to care about me,” he heard Clint say, and his voice sounded strangled and low, like Phil had punched him in the stomach.

“I don’t,” Phil whispered.

“You’re the _last person_ in the fucking world I need coming to my rescue.” 

“I’m not trying to rescue you.”

“I’m not a stray dog. I can take care of myself.”

“I know,” Phil said, because no one survived in foster care for this long on their own without being self-reliant. Clint was a team captain and got good grades; he could obviously take care of himself. 

Phil waited for Clint’s grip to tighten to the point of pain, grinding his bones together, but instead Phil felt a ghost touch against his pulse, there and gone so quickly he almost thought he’d imagined it. He opened his eyes and held his breath when he found Clint leaning over him, so close he could count the tiny dusting of freckles over the bridge of Clint’s nose. 

“I don’t want anything from you,” Clint said. He was whispering now.

Phil licked his lips convulsively, and Clint’s gaze dropped to his mouth. At some point something had abruptly changed, but Phil didn’t know when or how. His heart knocked against his ribs like a startled rabbit; the air around him was stifling, and all he could hear was Clint’s breath turning shallow and small. His eyes flicked back up to Phil’s, and they were very dark, nearly all pupil.

“Perfect little douchebag,” Clint breathed, but it didn’t sound mean at all. He sounded lost.

Phil opened his mouth to say something, anything, though he had no idea what. He didn’t know what was going on anymore, why Clint’s grip on his wrists was still hard and fierce while his words were weirdly gentle. Phil found himself suddenly transfixed by the soft fringe of Clint’s lashes, the hint of pink sweeping over the top of his cheeks. He smelled like sweat and soap, and when Clint swallowed Phil watched the way his throat bobbed, the flex of tendons that drew his eyes to the shadows disappearing into the neck of Clint’s t-shirt, tracing the lines of his clavicle. 

Phil pulled his teeth in a slow drag over his bottom lip, and all the air left his lungs in one huge rush when he heard a tiny, tiny sound escape from Clint, painful and rough. Like a moan.

He couldn’t think about what that sound meant, because in the next moment Clint crushed his mouth against Phil’s.

Phil had been conditioned to defend himself against physical confrontations with Clint for years, so his initial response was to go completely still and wait for the inevitable blow to come. But it wasn’t in the form of a punch or a vicious barb—it came as Clint’s tongue shoving past Phil’s lips and licking over his teeth, along with wet heat and suction and Clint’s weight sinking down on top of him. Phil couldn’t breathe, couldn’t wrap his brain around what was happening. He soon grew dizzy from the lack of air, and when he gasped frantically against Clint’s mouth, Clint made a whimpering noise. 

Phil didn’t like thinking about the fact that he was almost seventeen and had never been kissed. But occasionally, when he gave in to idle fantasies about what it would be like, he never pictured kissing like this—like a battle, a fight for control, biting and angry. He’d always imagined soft touches and a certain sweetness that accompanied first kisses. There was nothing sweet here, only Clint pressing his wrists into the floor as he all but devoured Phil’s mouth. 

It wasn’t at all what Phil wanted from a kiss. Yet when he heard that vulnerable whimper, Phil felt himself begin to kiss back with small, careful swipes of his tongue along the slick curve of Clint’s lower lip, the exact opposite of Clint’s assault. Phil’s mouth felt swollen, bruised, and Clint only kissed him harder the more Phil continued his tentative exploration. Somewhere along the way Clint had let go of Phil’s wrists and braced both hands on the floor above Phil’s shoulders, and Phil was vaguely aware of his own hands landing somewhere on Clint’s chest, fingers curling into the fabric above his heart.

Clint groaned and shoved his knee in between Phil’s legs, and that was when Phil realized with a jolt that he was blindingly hard. The friction was enough to make Phil break out of the kiss with a startled _huh-uh_ , but Clint was right there, sucking almost savagely at Phil’s lip, as if he needed the kiss to breathe. He ground his knee against Phil, and it felt as if Phil had been hard _forever_. Distantly, he heard his own voice break on a high, thready moan, and he became very aware of the fact that he was practically naked.

His hands fumbled at Clint’s shirt; he needed him bare, needed that equal footing. Phil wouldn’t let himself fall apart like this— _Virgin_ , his mind screamed as he arched up against Clint’s chest and shuddered—without Clint there with him. And he was hard, too; Phil could feel him against his leg, thick and heavy through the cotton of his jeans. Phil raised his knee, let Clint ride it out for a moment. The breathless noise he gasped into Phil’s mouth made Phil feel insanely powerful, knowing he could make Clint Barton sound like that, the same guy who’d had more sex than Phil cared to think about. 

Clint reared back and stripped off his t-shirt. In the dying evening light shining into the kitchen, his skin looked like burned gold, his hair a soft, spiky mess. Phil wanted to touch him, all of him, wanted to put his mouth on the smooth, solid ridges of muscle curving over his hips and into his jeans.

Clint’s eyes skittered over Phil’s chest, his shoulders; Phil tried not to feel like he was lacking somehow. None of it mattered a second later as Clint swooped back down and kissed him again, hard enough to knock their teeth together. They were skin to skin now, heat everywhere, and Phil could hardly stand it. He wrapped a hand around Clint’s neck, digging his fingertips into the short hair at his nape, the telltale coiling shimmer starting to bloom deep in his stomach.

“Gonna come?” Clint said, biting at Phil’s jaw.

“No,” Phil said, because he wasn’t that easy.

Clint laughed and thrust his leg against Phil’s erection. Phil came three seconds later, teeth clenched so hard they ached. 

Luckily, Clint wasn’t far behind. He huffed loudly, his face going soft as his mouth dropped open. His lashes fanned out over his pink cheeks, and Phil just...could not look away.

When it was over, Clint let his forehead rest against Phil’s for a moment. There wasn’t any sound around them except the uneven cadence of their breathing. Phil let go of Clint and stretched his arms out above his head, back into their original position. His shorts were already starting to feel uncomfortably cold and gross.

Fuck, he’d just had an orgasm on his kitchen floor. With Clint Barton.

Like he could read Phil’s thoughts, Clint raised his head and met Phil’s eyes. They looked at each other silently, Phil’s heart thumping. What was he even supposed to say? _Thanks for not breaking my arm_?

“Is your mom coming home soon?” Clint finally asked. His voice was about two octaves deeper than normal and completely shredded. Phil’s cock gave a half-hearted jerk.

“She’s out of town until Friday night.” 

Clint sat back on his heels, wincing when he glanced down at the mess in his jeans. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and reached for his t-shirt, tugging it over his head as he got to his feet. Phil sat up and hugged his knees to his chest.

“So...I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asked awkwardly.

Clint didn’t respond, just walked straight toward the front door without looking back. Like nothing had ever happened.

As the door slammed shut, Phil dropped his head onto his folded arms and sighed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait on this chapter! Life has been nuts lately. 
> 
> Thanks as always to sno for the beta work. <3

“Um.” Pepper cleared her throat a little too politely and didn’t finish her sentence.

Phil glanced up from where he was diligently typing up notes for an upcoming history test. He loved having his study hall hour with Pepper; she believed in using every minute of a study hour to actually _study_ , and Phil always got tons of work done with her around.

Which was why her abrupt pause and sudden doodling made him wary. “What’s up?”

She tapped her notebook with her pencil, clearing her throat again before leaning over the library desk and the top of Phil’s MacBook, saying in a low, almost conspiratorial voice, “What is that on your neck?”

Phil frowned. “My neck?” He reached up to take stock, and his nails scraped over a patch of tender skin just below his jaw. It was warm, like a fresh bruise.

His eyes went wide. _Shit._ “I...cut myself shaving,” he said, quickly going back to his typing. “Hey, so, d’you think we’ll be quizzed over the Treaty of Versailles this time, or—”

“ _Phil._ ” Pepper stood up and dragged her chair around the table until she was right next to him, an extremely serious look in her eyes. “I know what a hickey looks like, and _that_ —” She pointed a finger at Phil’s neck. “—is a hickey. When did it happen? Who the heck are you making out with?”

Phil clenched his jaw. He’d managed to go several hours without thinking about his kitchen and the ruined pair of practice shorts still sitting in his washing machine. He couldn’t say the same for the night before, but Phil wasn’t going to tell a living soul about how he’d laid wide awake with the taste of angry kisses still in his mouth, rubbing his thumb over his sore lips and imagining the sounds Clint had made when Phil had kissed him back.

“It’s nothing, just...messed around with someone. Not a big deal.”

Pepper sat back and folded her arms over her chest. “Since when do you ‘mess around’ with anyone? You haven’t even kissed—”

“Jesus, Pep,” Phil hissed, scrunching down in his chair. “You don’t have to say it so loud.”

“Oh please, no one cares.”

“I didn’t see you running around telling the world about how you’d never been kissed before you and Tony started dating.”

At least she was polite enough to look contrite. “This isn’t about me, but nice play at changing the subject. What I’m trying to say is, you don’t exactly have the reputation of playing the field. I didn’t even know you had a crush on someone.”

“It’s not a crush,” Phil muttered, swallowing tightly. He didn’t know what it was; every time he tried to wrap his head around it all, his chest started to hurt at the image of Clint staring down at him with dark eyes and mussed hair. Crushes didn’t make your lungs ache with lack of air.

Pepper swatted his shoulder, but it was playful, affectionate. “So...who is it?” she asked with a wide smile, ducking her head close like she expected Phil to whisper the name in her ear.

Phil stared straight ahead at his laptop screen and replied, “It’s no one you know.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Clint pushing through the library doors. He had on a raggedy-looking long-sleeved gray t-shirt, the cuffs all frayed where they hung too low over his hands. 

Phil bit the inside of his bottom lip and resolutely kept his eyes on his history notes. He heard Mrs. Lawson, the school librarian, say, “Can I help with something, Mr. Barton? I don’t believe you have study period this hour.”

“Uh, yeah, I’m supposed to be making up a chemistry test.” Phil heard rustling of paper. “Mr. Calls is doing a lab thing with my class, he said I could take it in here and you could sign off on it?”

“Just be sure to sit at one of the tables in front where I can see you. And no cell phone funny business,” Mrs. Lawson replied, and that would’ve been that except the tables in front were also where Phil and Pepper were sitting.

And because Phil apparently liked to torture himself, his eyes flicked up and met Clint’s for a split second as Clint sat down across from Phil at the opposite table. Clint looked away, unfazed, but Phil saw a tick in his jaw.

Phil bit his lip harder. _Damn it._

“Hey, c’mon,” Pepper hissed, oblivious to Phil’s quiet meltdown. “I know it’s got to be someone who goes to school with us—unless you hooked up with a soccer guy from another school?”

Phil wanted the floor to swallow him whole. He could see Clint go very still for a moment before he pulled a pencil out of his backpack. “Look, I’m not getting into this right now, it’s seriously not a big deal.”

“Was it a girl or a guy?”

Clint spread his test out on the table, head bowed. There were thumb holes cut in the cuffs of his shirt, and he toyed with the frayed edges, fingers light and graceful. It made Phil think of that time in his room when he’d watch Clint clean his arrows.

“Hello? Earth to Phil?”

Clint blinked slowly, and suddenly he was looking at Phil from under his lashes, his expression completely unreadable. 

“It wasn’t a girl,” Phil said, tearing his eyes away as he typed a stream of nonsensical words into his history notes. “It was just some guy. It didn’t mean anything, trust me.”

Pepper snorted. “That’s not like you at all. Tony once told me he’d pegged you as a one-time true love guy, and I kind of agree with him.”

God, couldn’t she _stop talking_ for five minutes? Phil wanted to throw up. Clint, meanwhile, was hunched over his chemistry test, like he could care less that Phil was dying of embarrassment.

“People change,” Phil muttered. “And I don’t like Tony making me out to sound like a Disney princess.” 

“If anyone’s a princess, it’s Tony.” She sighed and held up her hands in defeat. “Fine, okay, I’ll drop it. But if I see anymore hickeys, I’m not going to let you off this easy next time.”

“There won’t be a next time,” Phil said tightly.

Clint rubbed his sleeve over the fading bruise on his cheekbone and kept working on his test. He didn’t look up again.

Phil had never felt so relieved to finally hear the bell ring for end of period. 

“By the way,” Pepper said as they packed up their laptops. “I’m glad to see you didn’t even blink when Clint sat down over there. It’s about time you two started learning how to be civilized human beings around each other.”

Phil shrugged. “Sure,” he replied nonchalantly. He glanced over to the spot where Clint had been, but Clint was already gone. 

~

“Tell me what happened.”

Clint very carefully did not meet Nat’s eyes. “Nothing happened. We had a discussion.” 

Nat had a stern tilt to her mouth. She leaned against the locker beside Clint’s and cocked her hip, which always meant she knew Clint was full of shit. Clint kept his head down and continued getting his stuff together for practice.

“Phil didn’t come to school with a black eye to match yours, so I’m assuming there’s a hint of truth in that. But you’re acting strange. What did Phil say to you?”

He paused, taking a deep breath. There was only so much he could keep from her, because Nat could read him like a fucking book. It wasn’t like he never shared his sexual exploits with her, but this was...different. Way different. He didn’t even know what to call it. Or why the hell he couldn’t stop _thinking_ about it. 

“We just...talked,” Clint said, and for some reason he immediately had a flash of Phil gasping and shaking underneath him, all pink cheeks and stupidly bright blue eyes. His stomach clenched in that hot, spiky way Clint usually loved, but not now. Not when it was associated with Phil Coulson. _It didn’t mean anything, trust me._

Nat’s eyes narrowed. “Did you...you didn’t _do_ anything with him, did you?” she asked in a low voice. 

Clint slammed his locker closed. “Why would you even think that? The guy hates my guts.”

“That’s decidedly not true, and I don’t know how else to explain why you’re so distracted. Please tell me you didn’t kiss him just to make a point, or to teach him a lesson. He’s not like the guys you normally hook up with.”

“And what, exactly, _are_ the guys like that I hook up with, huh?”

Nat rolled her eyes. “Seriously, Clint, does Phil strike you as the type of guy who would have sex with someone just for fun?”

“For fuck’s sake, we didn’t have sex,” Clint muttered, although strictly speaking that wasn’t exactly true. He didn’t consider coming in his jeans from dry humping to be sex, but some people might. Phil probably did. _A one-time true love guy._

Clint suddenly wondered if Phil had ever come with a guy before.

“So you _did_ makeout with him,” Nat hissed, poking Clint hard in the chest with her index finger. “Clint, don’t do this. It’s not fair.”

“Do what, it’s not like—it’s not like he didn’t kiss me back.” Clint winced as his voice dropped into a whisper. He remembered how gentle Phil had been, how he’d kissed almost like he was terrified he’d screw it all up. The guys Clint had been with didn’t kiss like that. Kissing was always a means to an end.

Nat shook her head and put both hands on Clint’s shoulders. “You need to be friends first,” she said quietly. 

Clint didn’t understand what she was getting at. They couldn’t be friends, and they _definitely_ would never be...more. Messy kisses on kitchen floors didn’t mean shit. Phil at least had that right. 

He stepped out of her hold, hefting his quiver and backpack onto his shoulder. “I’m gonna be late to practice,” he said, forcing a smile. He tugged on a strand of her hair and winked. “I’ll call you later?”

“Aren’t you going to Phil’s this evening?” she asked, one eyebrow raised.

Fuck, he’d tried to forget about that. But he couldn’t afford to miss another week; they were already behind on the project as it was. “Yeah, yeah, sure, but we’ll only be a couple hours, tops.”

Nat made an unimpressed noise. “Try not to kiss him again, please,” she drawled.

Clint beamed obnoxiously. “The thought never crossed my mind, darling.”

Nat smirked, patted his arm, then turned on her heel and sashayed back down the hallway to her own locker. He heard her mumble something exasperated in Russian. 

~

As much as Clint wanted to act like the...the _thing_ between him and Phil meant absolutely nothing, he couldn’t help the way his palms began to sweat as he rang Phil’s doorbell. It was close to impossible to stand there and not think about the last time he’d been there, shaking with anger and ready to punch Phil as many times as it took to make the shaking stop. 

Funny how, even though the punching never happened, it was something else entirely that had somehow calmed Clint down.

He chewed the corner of his lip as the door opened and Phil leaned against the doorway, arms hugged across his chest. He was dressed this time, but his hair and t-shirt looked slightly damp, like he’d just gotten out of the shower.

“Hey,” Phil said quietly. 

“Hey,” Clint replied, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say. _Sorry I bolted after getting you off_ wasn’t really all that appropriate, and besides, it wasn’t as if Phil wanted to talk about it. Clint wasn’t stupid, he’d heard the conversation with Pepper; Phil wanted to forget everything. Clint wished he could.

Phil shifted from foot to foot. “Your eye looks better,” he finally said.

“Thanks.” Clint could smell hints of soap and shampoo. The collar of Phil’s shirt was sticking to his neck, right below a dark smudge of—

Oh. Fuck. Clint hadn’t even realized he’d—marked him. 

A flare of heat pooled low in his stomach, making Clint’s teeth clench. God, what was _wrong_ with him? He didn’t want Phil, he’d _never_ wanted Phil, it was just—his head was all fucked up over Lucky, and he hadn’t gotten laid in months, and Phil had suddenly started being nice to him, which was—not something Clint wanted to be dealing with on top of everything.

Phil cleared his throat and ducked his head, his left hand cupping the side of his neck, right over the hickey. Clint was staring too much. “So...come on up, I guess, if you’re staying.” 

“Yeah, okay,” Clint said, irritated that he couldn’t stop being stupid about this. He followed Phil upstairs to his room, telling himself over and over that he’d had one-time flings with guys all the time and they never tied him into knots. And those guys had actually wanted Clint to kiss them, to make them come, to—

He shoved a hand through his hair as he dumped his bag on the floor by Phil’s bed. “What did Fury say to you last week?” Clint asked, desperate to think about anything but Phil naked and gasping into his mouth.

Phil shrugged, folding himself onto his desk chair, one knee hugged to his chest. “Nothing, as usual. Just grunted a lot and told us to keep working on stuff.”

“Does he even give a shit about what we’re doing?”

“Honestly? I have no clue. Who knows, this might all be, like, a social experiment he’s conducting and we’re both his lab rats.” Phil gave him a tentative smile, his damp hair clinging to his forehead.

“It’s not a very creative experiment,” Clint said and looked away to rummage in his bag for a pen. How did Phil manage to smile like that, all sweet and secretive? It was unsettling. It made Clint’s skin grow warm.

Phil sighed. “Whatever, I guess we should just keep going. If he totally hated it, he’d say so. He kind of made a pleased sound when he saw the sketch you made of the jerseys.”

Clint blinked in surprise. “Yeah? D’you think he’ll go for them?”

“If we can keep the price low, I don’t see why not. It’s unique. Not many camps have that.” Phil opened his laptop and started typing.

“We should, uh, start narrowing down the team clinics,” Clint said. “See how many players we’re going to need. The sooner we let everyone know the schedule, the better.”

“I was just thinking that. I made a spreadsheet of all the varsity teams and their main players.” Phil turned his laptop around, displaying a perfectly organized, color-coded index. 

Clint frowned. “Why is the archery team in pink?”

Phil rolled his eyes. “Seriously? The soccer team’s in purple. I thought you were secure in your masculinity.” The second he said the words, he bit his lip and went back to typing.

“I go for purple myself, actually,” Clint drawled, and for some weird reason, that made the corner of Phil’s mouth quirk upward.

“Fine, I’ll change it, you big whiner.”

“Kate will definitely want in. You can put a checkmark by her name. She loves kids.”

“What if she’s busy next summer?”

Clint waved a hand. “I’ll talk her into it. She’s a sucker for me, I know how to work my charm.”

There was a tick in Phil’s jaw. The half-smile disappeared. “Do you always flirt to get your way?” he asked softly.

 _It doesn’t work with you, so no_ , Clint thought, wondering what the hell Phil was getting at. He started to make a snarky comment, but the buzzing of his cell cut him off. Clint dug his phone out of his jeans pocket, read _Jamie S._ on the caller ID. Jamie was a college freshman who’d interned at the shelter last summer; he and Clint had madeout several times in the supply closet behind the cat kennels, and occasionally he’d call Clint for a quick hook-up whenever he was in town. The guy was gorgeous and gave fantastic head.

“Heeeeeey there, Santorelli, what’s up?” Clint answered, letting his voice go all low and sultry. Fuck it, if Phil wanted to accuse him of being a flirt, he’d show him how it was done.

“Not much, dude, you free tonight? I’m apartment-sitting for a buddy of mine who’s out of town. He’s got a shitload of beer and a 54-inch flat screen. Wanna party?” It was Jamie-code for _wanna fuck?_

Clint knew he shouldn’t. He was treading on thin ice with Terrance and couldn’t risk sneaking in late for a while, not until he got the Lucky situation under control. Getting drunk and getting laid were about the last things he should’ve been concerned about.

He glanced across the room at Phil, who’d moved from his desk chair to the bed, still clacking away at his laptop like he couldn’t care less that Clint was getting a booty call. It made Clint’s stomach twist up tight.

“I could probably be persuaded,” Clint drawled, stretching one arm out along the edge of the bed behind his head. “Are we talking a single condom party, or do I need to stock up?” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Phil lick his lips, but he didn’t look away from his screen.

Jamie laughed. “I’m horny as fuck, so come prepared. You still got that awesome lube?”

“Tons of it. I can get cherry-flavored, too, if you want.” He really only had half a bottle, and he had no clue how to get flavored lube. “But, ah, we’ll need to be fairly quick about it. I’ve got curfew. Think you can fuck me to your satisfaction in a couple hours?”

“Oh, you know I can, Barton. Been thinking about that hot little ass of yours for weeks.”

“Give me a half hour and I’ll be there. Just text me the directions.”

“Done. See you then, gorgeous.”

Clint hung up and waited to feel the usual giddy shiver of anticipation that came every time Jamie called him something ridiculous— _gorgeous_ was his favorite endearment—but instead he couldn’t stop staring at Phil and the way he kept typing without any reaction at all. 

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Clint said lazily, just to get _something_ out of him.

Phil shrugged, distracted. “I just sent you a copy of the spreadsheet. If you’ve got a Google account you should be able to—”

“So, like, can we cut this short tonight? In case you didn’t hear, I sort of have a date.”

Finally, Phil stopped typing. “Yeah, I heard,” he said, quiet but without any inflection. 

“His name’s Jamie. He’s a college guy, so we don’t hang out a lot.” Clint had no idea why he was telling Phil any of this. 

Phil shrugged again. “Okay. Did you want to finalize those jersey designs before you leave?”

What the hell was Phil’s problem? It was as if he was completely used to guys planning hook-ups over the phone in his bedroom. What, like _he_ got action all the time? For being a “one-time true love guy” like Pepper claimed he was, Phil should be...well, pissed off. Angry. Not all blasé like Clint was talking to his grandma.

“He gives really, really awesome head,” Clint blurted out. “I mean, it’s seriously the best I’ve ever had, and I’ve gotten my dick sucked a lot.”

Phil stared at his laptop and didn’t say anything. But he also wasn’t typing anymore.

“Have you ever had an amazing blowjob, Coulson? Like the kind that just whites everything out and makes you wanna die, but in a good way?”

He watched as Phil’s throat bobbed. The tops of his ears had gone a little pink. “That’s none of your business, Barton,” he replied, voice barely louder than a whisper.

Clint felt a sudden, overwhelming rush of satisfaction. His heart had begun to race. “If you had, you’d be talking about it. You’d tell _everyone_ about how amazing your dick felt, and if the guy swallowed, it’s even better.”

Phil’s shoulders twitched. “I don’t need to brag about the notches on my bedpost.”

“You don’t even have a bedpost. Don’t get all high and mighty on me; you’re only saying that ‘cause you don’t know. And I bet you’ve never even had your mouth near a guy’s dick before, yeah?”

“I don’t—”

“Get on your knees? Oh, you don’t always have to.” Clint turned and leaned against the bed, and yeah, now he had Phil’s attention. Those stupidly pretty blue eyes were wide now, a little darker than usual, and Clint wasn’t thinking anymore about Jamie or cherry-flavored lube or an empty apartment. “Sometimes you can lay on a bed, side by side, or you can even have ‘em kneel over you, as long as you don’t mind getting your throat fucked.”

Phil’s tongue flicked out over his lips. “Stop it,” he whispered.

“Or, y’know, if blowjobs aren’t your thing, there’s always hands. Hands are good. I once had a guy come in my hand and we didn’t stop kissing once. He bit my lip so hard it bled for like an hour.”

“Shut up, Barton.” Phil’s mouth twisted up into a sneer, but his cheeks were turning red.

“But Jamie, man, Jamie’ll suck your brains out and then just bend you over and fuck you so hard you don’t even know which way’s up—”

 _”Shut up!”_

Clint didn’t know what he was expecting. Fuck, he didn’t even know what he was doing, letting all this shit spill out of him just to see Phil’s eyes go dark and his blush deepen. He didn’t even want Phil; he just wanted to fuck with him, that was all. 

But he hadn’t counted on Phil shoving his laptop aside and tackling Clint to the floor, pinning him to the carpet much like Clint had pinned him the day before in Phil’s kitchen. Their hips collided, and _holy fuck_ Phil was hard. Even worse, Clint was, too, and he hadn’t even realized it until now.

He didn’t want this. He wanted to leave and go see Jamie and have lots of uncomplicated sex that didn’t mess him up inside, make him wonder about things that didn’t matter. Clint didn’t want to know what it was like to have Phil’s weight—solid weight, heavy in the right places—pressing him down while Phil looked at him with his lips all slick and parted, panting like he’d run a fucking marathon. He kept staring at Clint’s mouth, a helpless, terrified look in his eyes, and Clint thought, _He wants me to kiss him again._

Something fragile and warm opened up inside Clint, like the feeling he sometimes got when Lucky pushed his head against Clint’s hand when he was starved for affection. Only there was an ache to it, an edge of something more that Clint couldn’t identify, and didn’t want to. He knew one thing, though: he wouldn’t kiss Phil. Not again. Whatever they were about to do would happen and Clint would live with it, but without the kissing. Kissing complicated things.

So when Phil’s eyes—unfairly gorgeous, God, Clint hated being this close and seeing just how blue they really were, how his lashes were long and delicate—fluttered shut and he started to lean into Clint, Clint whispered, “No.”

Said gorgeous eyes flew open, startled. “What?” Phil breathed.

Clint swallowed. “Just—I—” Then he bit his lip and rolled his hips up, grinding into Phil, who gasped loudly, just like he had the day before. It was a high, shuddery sound that made Clint’s heart pound. He pulled his hands free from Phil’s hold and rolled them over until Phil was under him again. His pupils were now almost complete black, and his hips twitched against Clint like he couldn’t help himself.

Clint stretched out over Phil, mouthed over the fading shadow on Phil’s neck. It wasn’t kissing, Clint told himself. “Tell me one thing, Weasel,” he whispered in Phil’s ear. He didn’t know why he chose that moment to use the stupid nickname, but for some weird reason, it felt like a shared secret between them. Private.

Phil huffed out a breath and shivered. Clint felt a hand splay tentatively over his back, fingertips barely curled into his t-shirt. “Okay,” Phil said, deep and growly. Jesus, when did he learn to sound like that?

Clint scraped his teeth over the line of Phil’s jaw. He smiled when that growl turned into a moan. “Have you ever had anyone suck your dick?”

“Fuck you,” Phil hissed, his nails digging into Clint’s back.

It sounded like a _no_ to Clint.

He suddenly wanted to ask more questions— _Was I your first kiss? Had you gotten off with a guy before me? How many people have touched you like this?_ —but it wasn’t any of Clint’s business. He didn’t _care_. So what if he got Phil off again? He wasn’t any different from the all the other guys Clint had been with.

Clint slid down Phil’s body, slowly, waiting for Phil to stop him. But Phil only made a tight little groaning noise when Clint pushed his hands up under the edge of Phil’s t-shirt, exposing his stomach and that dark trail disappearing past Phil’s fly. It made Clint’s mouth water and his thoughts sort of fuzz out for a second; without thinking, he licked at the baby-fine hair dusted over Phil’s skin. Phil arched into the touch, a short, strangled noise caught in his throat. Clint could feel the heat of him pulsing through his jeans, a stark, thick outline twitching against denim. 

With just the tip of his finger, Clint gently traced the curve of Phil’s cock. Phil jerked against his hand and whimpered, grabbing Clint by the wrist.

“S-Stop, I’m gonna—don’t—” 

Clint glanced up the length of Phil’s body. His eyes were squeezed shut, cheeks flushed dark pink, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it had to almost hurt. He looked desperate, his fingers trembling slightly against Clint’s wrist. Clint had barely touched him and Phil was already close. Normally Clint would’ve rolled his eyes at the lameness of it all—he had no interest in guys with no stamina, in _virgins_ —but now, here, Clint felt his heart beat double-time, his blood thrumming straight to his own dick.

He’d done this to Phil. Perfect, straight-laced Phil Coulson was on the verge of coming from nothing but Clint’s hands on him. Last time, Clint didn’t really have time to think about what was happening, to think about what it meant to make Phil come apart so easily. 

Clint badly wanted to make him come again.

Ignoring Phil’s hold, Clint carefully pulled the button free from its hole on the fly of Phil’s jeans, slid the zipper down in slow, incremental movements. Phil made another sharp moan, but he didn’t tell Clint to stop. Instead, he dropped his hand onto the carpet and held perfectly still, his chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. Clint parted his jeans and— _fuck_ , Phil was wet, the whole front of his boxer briefs dark with precome, sticking to the thick head of his cock.

It was—it was possibly the hottest thing Clint had ever seen. He swallowed, suddenly a little dizzy. Phil was...big. Really big. Long, round, and fat, and even through Phil’s briefs Clint could see the large, heavy outline of his balls. Clint had never considered himself to be much of a size queen, but just looking at Phil was making him salivate. God, what the hell was the matter with him?

Clint didn’t want to think anymore. He licked his lips, peeled back the waistband of Phil’s briefs, and bit his tongue when Phil’s cock bobbed free, bouncing against his stomach. The head was slick-shiny, dark red, and all Clint wanted to do in that moment was taste it.

He took Phil into his mouth in one quick, wet slide. Phil made a harsh growl, deep and feral-sounding, and Clint felt a hand shove into his hair, holding on. Clint sucked hard, swiped his tongue over the slit, and that was enough make Phil splinter and come. 

“Oh— _fuck_.” Phil’s voice broke, his hips spasming as his whole body shook. Clint shut his eyes and swallowed everything, even as he told himself he never did this, never took a guy’s come all the way in. The hand in Clint’s hair twitched and eventually fell away, and when Clint finally pulled off and wiped the back of his hand across his lips, he looked up and found Phil kind of wrecked and soft-looking, sweat shining on his upper lip. His eyes were closed, and he was panting softly. 

Clint was still rock hard, but that didn’t seem to matter. He tucked Phil back into his briefs, which made Phil whimper and try to curl away from him. Clint’s chest clenched tight, and he found himself crawling back up Phil’s body to nuzzle at his cheek.

“Hey,” he whispered—and since when did Clint ever whisper after blowing a guy? “You okay?”

Phil gave a weak, breathless laugh. “Not really,” he whispered back. “I...can’t really form words right now.”

For some reason, Clint grinned against Phil’s temple. He could still feel small tremors shivering through Phil’s body; Clint sunk his weight down against Phil’s side, letting his arm drape across Phil’s stomach, their legs tangled together. For several long, quiet moments they laid there while Phil’s breathing evened out.

“Don’t you have to get to Jamie’s?” Phil asked softly, his eyes still closed.

Clint didn’t really want to go anywhere right now. The thought kind of scared him a little. “Yeah. Soon,” he said.

Phil shifted against him, rolling his hip along Clint’s erection. Clint bit back a groan, so instantly on edge he gasped, and suddenly he was on his back again with Phil leaning over him. His eyes were open now, still a dark, intense blue, but there was a flicker of something else there now, a fierceness Clint had never seen before.

“Can you...stay for ten more minutes?” Phil asked in a rumbly, sex-drenched voice, like he was deliberately trying to turn Clint on even more. It didn’t help that he punctuated his words with tugging at Clint’s fly. He got his hand around Clint’s cock before Clint could barely comprehend what was happening, and all it took was seeing the head of his dick push through Phil’s long, graceful fingers and Clint was gone. There was come all over his shirt and Phil’s hand, and Clint couldn’t find the words to tell Phil that he wouldn’t be going to Jamie’s tonight.

Downstairs, the front door slammed. “Phil, are you there?” a female voice called.

“Shit! My mom’s home early.” Phil scrambled to his feet, wiping one hand off on a random pair of socks as he zipped his fly with the other. Clint, still hazy from his orgasm, sat up and ran both hands through his hair. He glanced down at his shirt and laughed.

“Fuck, dude,” he snorted. “Think she’ll notice?”

Phil made a face, wrinkling his nose all primly. “Jesus, yes, she’s not—here.” He grabbed a t-shirt off the back of his desk chair and threw it at Clint. “At least you won’t be obvious.”

Clint held the shirt in his hands. It was really soft, frayed along the sleeves. The front said something about a soccer clinic. “Thanks,” he said.

Phil shrugged as he paused at the door to his room. “I’m just gonna—” He waved toward the stairs. “I haven’t seen her since Monday, so…”

“Sure. Whatever.” Once Phil disappeared, Clint stripped out of his ruined shirt and stuffed it into his backpack. He pulled on Phil’s t-shirt; it was a little too small in the shoulders, and it smelled like Phil’s aftershave. Clint rubbed a hand over his chest. He could still feel his pulse thumping low around his cock, his heartbeat not quite steady.

When he came downstairs, Phil’s mom was petting his hair and smiling at him like he was the sun. Clint stopped on the bottom stair, tugging at the strap of his backpack.

“Oh, Clint! I didn’t realize you were here, too!” She turned that same brilliant smile toward him, and Clint felt himself flush with a weird, embarrassed pleasure.

“I was just leaving,” Clint said awkwardly, hoping his hair wasn’t a complete disaster. It was bad enough he was wearing her son’s shirt.

“No, no, stick around! I’ll order you boys some pizza.”

“Clint can’t stay,” Phil said. “He’s got a date.” He stuffed his hands in the back pockets of his jeans and didn’t meet Clint’s eyes.

“Yeah, sorry. Thanks, though.” He gave her a stupid little wave as he slipped past Phil, careful not to touch him. “Have a good night, Ms. Coulson.”

“You, too, Clint.” Just as he was out the door, he heard her say to Phil, “I’m seriously so pleased you two are friends now. He really does seem like a sweet guy.”

 _Sweet._ Sure. He still had the taste of come in his mouth.

Clint went straight home and immediately took off Phil’s t-shirt, leaving it in a heap on the floor of his room by his running shoes. But then he pictured Margo putting the thing in the wash, or scooping it up to be put in the trash, like it was just another random, useless thing of Clint’s; he grabbed the shirt and shoved it under his pillow. He’d give it back to Phil tomorrow. 

He eventually went to bed with an old battered copy of _The Shining_ and read late into the night. His phone buzzed with three separate texts, all of them from Jamie.

Clint never answered them.


	6. Chapter 6

Phil’s mom wanted to make a big deal out of him now being friends with Clint, and Phil played along with it. What else was he supposed to say? He couldn’t keep insisting that they were only working on a project with Fury in an attempt to keep playing their respective sports, and oh hey, by the way, in the meantime they’d sort of...started...something. Something that still didn’t mean they were friends. Phil couldn’t begin to explain that to his mom; he couldn’t even explain it to himself. 

And yet, for all intents and purposes, they’d somehow started acting like friends. Phil fully expected Clint to ignore him completely the day after the _thing_ in Phil’s room, but Clint was practically shy around him during English class, which was the one class they had together. Phil had smiled carefully at Clint when their eyes had met, and Clint had smiled back awkwardly. Phil had sat down in the desk beside him, murmured, “Hey,” and Clint had nodded back, his knee suddenly bouncing.

“I forgot your shirt,” he’d mumbled.

Phil had paused. “Oh. It’s cool. That thing’s like a billion years old. I only sleep in it, mostly.”

Clint had made a weird little grunting sound, his mouth twisting to one side. “Anyway. Thanks. And your mom’s really nice, too. I hope I didn’t sound like a dick.”

It was the second time Clint had thanked him for the shirt. Phil hadn’t known what to say. “No, no, you were fine. She likes you. Keeps talking about how awesome it is that we’re friends.” He’d laughed, a sharp, huffy little dorky snort, and waited for Clint to make a snide comment.

Instead, Clint had met his eyes and said in a low voice, “Are we?”

“Are we what?” 

“Friends.”

Phil had swallowed, hating the way his palms had started to sweat. He couldn’t even look at Clint’s mouth without remembering the feel of— 

“Sure, why not,” he’d replied, and flipped open his lit book like it really didn’t matter to him that Clint was watching him with those stormy blue eyes of his. Phil could already feel his dick twitching.

He’d thought he’d heard Clint murmur, “Friends,” again under his breath as the first period bell rang. Phil had glanced over and saw Clint drag his hand through his hair, his thumb skimming absently over the shell of his ear. Phil’s stomach had bottomed out for a moment as he remembered Clint’s harsh breath against his neck, asking, _Have you ever had anyone suck your dick?_

Phil had spent the rest of class hard in his jeans. He didn’t dare look at Clint again.

So they were friends now. Phil wondered if he should tell someone to make it official; the whole school was aware of their supposed hatred, and now things were different. Maybe. Sort of. He was pretty sure friends didn’t spend entire weekends obsessing about the feel of their other friends’ dicks in their hands.

“I have an idea,” his mom said on Sunday evening. “You should invite Clint back for dinner. I’ll cook for you guys, make a whole spread. Maybe get out the good dishes.”

Phil stared at her. “You’ve never told me to invite Steve and Bucky for dinner,” he said.

“You don’t need to be told to invite them over. I want to celebrate the progress you two have made! Besides, correct me if I’m wrong, but I get the feeling Clint doesn’t get very many home-cooked meals.”

He remembered Clint sitting in his room with a plate of pizza rolls, mumbling, _We don’t do dinner a lot where I live._ “I guess not,” Phil said.

His mom smiled. “I’ll let you pick the date.”

Phil didn’t want to think of anything involving Clint as a _date_. That was never happening. Ever. He wasn’t dumb enough to think having sex—and that was what they’d done, that was _definitely_ sex, Phil wasn’t naïve—meant anything to someone like Clint. A couple of orgasms with a virgin probably barely ranked on Clint’s radar. 

Phil wouldn’t let himself count the blowjob. Clint had just been making a point, that’s all. 

Too bad he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Not just the blowjob itself, but everything that had been involved with it; had Phil made too much noise? Did he come too fast? Had he looked like a complete freak when he came? Had he sounded sexy at all? 

He kept picturing Clint showing up at that college guy’s place, all loose-limbed and his hair mussed and wearing Phil’s stupid soccer camp shirt. The guy, Jamie, would smirk and ask where the hell Clint had gotten the shirt, and Clint would say something like, “Some dude gave it to me after a handjob in his room.” And they’d laugh and then Jamie would maybe kiss Clint all filthy and slow, like the guy in the parking lot that one time, and—

“Jesus,” Phil muttered to himself just as a ball flew straight past his head. He blinked hard.

“Hey, you okay?” Bucky called from across the field, giving Phil a concerned frown. “You’re super out of it today.”

“I’m fine.” He gritted his teeth and told himself practice was the absolute worst time to be spacing out over something as stupid as Clint Barton’s sex life. They had a tournament coming up; everyone was counting on Phil to be at his best.

He got through the rest of practice with only a slightly weird look from his coach, and in the locker rooms later Bucky asked again, in a low voice, “Dude, you’re sure? Did something happen?”

Phil huffed, “I’ve got a lot on my mind. It was just an off day.”

Bucky didn’t look convinced, but he held up both hands. “Fair enough. I’m gonna head home and change, then go to Steve’s to hang out. You should come.”

“Thanks.” Phil glanced over Bucky’s shoulder and caught sight of Clint pushing through the main locker room doors, shirtless and sweating. He was wearing weight-lifting gloves. “I’ll, um, think about it.”

“Cool.” Bucky clapped Phil on the arm. “And hey, I’m not trying to make you feel like shit or anything. It’s just that the team needs you in top form, y’know?”

Phil winced, even as he couldn’t quite keep from tracking Clint’s movements out of the corner of his eye. “I know,” he said, and gave Bucky a grin. 

Bucky grinned back before he turned to leave, and suddenly it was only Phil and Clint alone in the locker rooms. 

He hadn’t really spoken to Clint in several days; the only real interactions they’d had were the polite, tentative smiles in English class. Phil had this irrational need to make Clint speak to him first, which was so pathetic. And yet he could feel his heart drum a little faster as he covertly watched Clint strip off his gloves and flex his hands. His shorts sat very low on his hips, his stomach muscles shiny with sweat. Phil was abruptly hit by the memory of Clint stretched out beneath him, all hard and shivering and staring at Phil with dark, dark eyes, his mouth all wet and parted...

“What do you need, Weasel?” Clint asked. He looked up at Phil with a tiny smirk. It didn’t look mean at all. 

Phil swallowed. “So, I’ve been meaning to ask—I mean, my mom wanted me to ask—about dinner. Um, you coming over for dinner.” He folded his arms over his chest, conscious of his sweaty practice jersey.

Clint tossed his gloves aside. “Like, at your house?”

“Yeah. My mom wants to cook for you.”

“Really?” His smirk melted into a real smile, one that made a stupid curl of warmth unfold in Phil’s chest.

“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to—”

“No, I’ll do it.” Clint paused, ducking his head. “No one’s ever invited me for dinner before,” he added quietly.

“Not even Natasha?” Phil couldn’t stop himself from asking.

Clint laughed. “Her family doesn’t cook.”

Phil nodded like that made sense, when in reality all he could think of was how much he really, really wanted to push Clint up against the lockers and put his hands all over him. 

“What time should I come over?” Clint asked, completely unaware that Phil was trying desperately to calm his erection.

“Uh.” Phil cleared his throat. “Next week? We could do it Thursday night, after we’re done with our project work.”

“Okay. I’ll tell my assistant to put it on my calendar,” Clint drawled, and there a mischievous glint his eyes as his voice dipped low and smooth, almost as if—

—as if he were flirting with Phil.

Phil’s stomach swooped, his heart racing with frantic urgency. Is this what it was like to be on the receiving end of Clint’s affections? Is this how all those other guys felt? God, Phil was too easy; he was better than this, he wasn’t the kind of guy to go to pieces over some stupid blowjob.

He realized a beat too late that he was staring at Clint’s mouth.

“Phil,” Clint said carefully. It sounded like both a question and a warning.

“Are you seeing Jamie again?” Phil asked. 

For some weird reason, Clint blushed. “No. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Just making sure dinner doesn’t interfere with your...other stuff.” What the hell was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he just let things go?

“Other stuff?” Clint tilted his head to one side. He leaned a little closer to Phil, who bit the inside of his lower lip.

“You know what I mean.”

“Maybe I don’t. Be more specific.”

Phil looked away. “I won’t force to you be at my house when you could be getting off somewhere else.” He hated how jealous he sounded, which was ridiculous, since he wasn’t at all, he _wasn’t_. Clint was right, it was none of Phil’s business who he fucked. He didn’t care.

He still didn’t care when Clint said, “I don’t think your house is so bad.” 

“That’s a ringing endorsement,” Phil mumbled. He wasn’t prepared for Clint to move even closer to him, until he could feel Clint’s warm breath brush against his cheek.

“What I’m saying is...maybe I don’t need to get off somewhere else,” Clint whispered.

Phil went very still, holding his breath. He made the mistake of turning his head enough to where his lips skimmed over Clint’s jaw. His mouth went wet with the overwhelming urge to kiss him.

“Oh,” Phil managed to huff. Would Clint care if Phil kissed him? Was that part of what they were doing here? He’d refused to kiss him last time, so it stood to reason that it probably wasn’t the best idea.

But Phil couldn’t think of a reason why at the moment. All the blood in his brain had rushed to his dick. 

Later, he’d use that as an excuse for why he kissed Clint.

It was fast and sloppy, his tongue barely slipping over the edge of Clint’s teeth. He put one hand against Clint’s chest, more to balance himself than anything, only the second he swore he felt Clint start move into him, Clint jerked away.

“Wait,” Clint gasped. His eyes were wide and dark, lips slick-shiny.

Phil wanted to moan. “Sorry,” he breathed, even though he wasn’t.

“No, just—” Clint tangled his hand in the front of Phil’s jersey and tugged him forward, until their foreheads pressed together; it felt strangely sweet. Phil didn’t know where to put his hands, so he let them rest on Clint’s hips, the tips of his fingers curled into the dips and valleys of Clint’s lower back.

“We do this without the kissing. Got it?” Clint said.

“Do what?” Phil wanted to hear him say it out loud. If he couldn’t define what was happening, maybe Clint could.

Clint groaned low in his throat. “This,” he said, and rolled his hips up into Phil. There was barely anything between them but the slick material of their practice shorts, and Phil was already on edge. The friction was almost too much.

“God, not here,” Phil moaned when he started to feel the first hints of orgasm creeping up on him. “Don’t make me come here, please.” It came out more breathless than he intended.

Clint snaked an arm around Phil’s waist, held him tight as he gave another slow, hard thrust. “Where do you want me to make you come, huh?” he whispered in Phil’s ear, and that alone about did Phil in.

“My house. My mom won’t be home until late, we can—we can do this there. No kissing,” he added belatedly, mindless enough that he’d pretty much promise Clint anything just as long as he’d keep touching him.

Clint let him go, but not before he nipped at line of Phil’s jaw. “You drive. Don’t jerk off in the car, okay?”

“Fuck off,” Phil said, and on a whim, he scraped his teeth over Clint’s earlobe. He felt ridiculous pride when Clint shivered violently.

Somehow, they both managed to make themselves halfway presentable before they ran from the locker rooms to Phil’s car. He’d never driven with a full-on, raging boner before, but Clint wasn’t any better off. He pressed himself against the passenger side door and let his knee bounce, arms hugged around his chest. Clint’s cheeks were still bright pink, and his hair was still damp with sweat. Clint didn’t say a word, but Phil could feel his eyes on him. 

Phil’s heartbeat sounded way too loud in the closeness of the car.

It felt like hours later when they were finally through the front door of the house, up the stairs and safely locked in Phil’s bedroom. All the breath left Phil’s lungs when Clint stripped his shirt own off and shoved Phil back onto the bed, crawling over Phil’s body. He slid his hands under Phil’s shirt, smirking when Phil arched into his touch and moaned.

“Sensitive,” Clint whispered.

“Horny,” Phil hissed back, wishing Clint wasn’t so perceptive.

“Yeah, I can see that.” Clint cupped his hand over the front of Phil’s shorts and hummed his approval when Phil’s dick jerked under his palm. “I could get you off without even touching you.”

“Where’s the fun in that, asshole?” 

Clint squinted down at him for a second, then slowly, obscenely, drew his tongue over his bottom lip. “Wanna bet?”

Phil didn’t want to wager anything. He knew damn well he was capable of coming just from staring at Clint’s mouth. “Shut up and blow me or something, I don’t have all night.” His voice wavered slightly.

“Hmm, I got a better idea.” Clint sat back on his heels and skimmed Phil’s t-shirt off, leaving it tangled around Phil’s wrists. He pinned Phil with a light hold before sliding back down and abruptly sucking one of Phil’s nipples into his mouth.

Phil came with an embarrassingly loud shout.

“That’s what I thought,” he heard Clint murmur in a thick, husky voice that was so damn hot, Phil felt himself twitch painfully even through the aftershocks of his orgasm.

He couldn’t get enough air back into his lungs; everything was starbursts behind his eyes, just like the time he’d come from Clint blowing him. Phil felt wrecked, shattered, a blur of too many emotions flooding through him with bright, overwhelming intensity. 

He swallowed tightly, his hands shaking where they gripped his tangled shirt. Phil opened his eyes and found Clint watching him with dark blue eyes, his mouth parted and his breathing shallow.

Phil suddenly wondered why the hell he was good enough for Clint to fuck, but not to kiss.

He needed to be kissed.

But that wasn’t what they were doing. This wasn’t about tender things and feelings Phil couldn’t put into words. This was getting off, and convincing Clint that Phil could be just as good as all those other guys.

Phil never did anything half-assed.

“You okay?” Clint whispered into the curve of Phil’s neck.

Phil’s response was to roll Clint onto his back and wrangle his dick out of his shorts. Clint was a little longer than Phil, but not as wide (a fact Phil took a lot of secret pleasure in), and he curved to the left. The head was wet, and it pulsed when Phil rubbed his thumb over it.

“You—ah, shit.” Clint’s eyes went wide, pupils totally blown. Phil didn’t look away as he leaned down and took a long, careful lick.

Clint made a strangled sound, his hips snapping off the bed. 

_Whose the sensitive one now, huh?_ Phil thought, and licked him again. He’d never done this before, and never gave it much thought until recently. There were a lot of things Phil hadn’t thought about much until the last few weeks, like being around Clint Barton suddenly made him obsessed with sex. Not that Phil never thought about sex, but it was never with this itch under his skin, or a low thrum of anticipation deep in his belly. He’d never thought about sex in terms of actually _having_ it, or having someone.

He had Clint, here and now. Whatever their friendship was, or whatever was happening between them, Phil could have this. This was his.

He braced his hands on Clint’s thighs and let his mouth go slack, sucking Clint in as far as he could.

Clint’s moan was filthy and loud. Phil sucked him harder, and Clint growled, “Oh, fuck, that’s—you’re—”

Phil fumbled his hand around the base of Clint’s cock. He could do this; he knew what he liked, and he remembered everything Clint had done to him. He squeezed Clint, flicking the tip of his tongue over bitter-salt slit. Clint huffed out a breath, mumbled something that sounded like Phil’s name, and Phil’s mouth was abruptly flooded with come.

It happened too fast for Phil to swallow. He startled, and his hands flailed out to brace himself as he pulled off. Clint’s dick gave one last pulse, a burst of white spurting down the shaft, and Phil realized belatedly that he might be getting hard again.

“Jesus fuck, Coulson,” Clint gasped. “You’ve got—you’ve got come all over your face.”

Phil blinked, the back of his hand swiping at his mouth. It came back slick and sticky. He was too breathless to really say anything, so he scrambled off the bed. He grabbed a couple of washcloths from the linen closet, sparing a moment to glance at himself in the bathroom mirror.

His hair was a disaster, the flush in his cheeks so bright it made his stupid freckles stand out in stark relief. He was pink all over, actually, right down to his bellybutton. And the slick-shiny mess all over his right cheek and trailing down his chin—combined with the obvious drying tackiness in his shorts—just made it worse.

God, did Clint actually think he was sexy? Phil blanched and shut the bathroom light off as he scrubbed his face clean.

When he got back to his room, Clint was sprawled starfish-like over Phil’s bed, gazing up at the ceiling. Phil tossed a cloth at him.

“When did you get that?” Clint asked. He jerked his chin up.

Phil grit his teeth. He didn’t need to blush more. “My mom got it for me in New York when I was a kid.” It was the first Captain America poster he’d ever had, and it had stayed thumb-tacked to his bedroom ceiling ever since.

“It’s pretty cool.”

“Seriously?”

Clint shrugged. “Yeah. Kinda vintage, y’know? ‘s probably worth something if you sold it on eBay.” 

Phil couldn’t believe Clint was lying on his bed, cock still hanging out, and complimenting Phil’s Captain America memorabilia. “Um. Thanks.” 

Clint sat up carefully and wiped at the come drying on his stomach. “So...d’you think, maybe—”

Naturally, Phil’s cell chose that moment to ring. He nearly tripped getting to his backpack. 

“Hey, Phil!” Steve said cheerily. “Bucky just told me you had a crap practice. You should totally come over, we’re playing Brownie Halo.” It was a game of Steve’s making: whoever made the first killshot of a round got first dibs on his grandma’s brownies. 

“Oh, yeah, um, about that...I’m not, uh. I’ve got a lot of homework.” Phil paced by the foot of the bed, uncomfortably aware of Clint’s eyes on him.

“Aw, c’mon. These are _chocolate chunk_ , okay. Also, Bucky’s getting his butt kicked.” 

Phil shoved a hand through his hair. “That does sound pretty awesome.”

Steve paused. “You do sound kind of…weird. Are things okay with your mom?”

"Sure, yeah, everything’s fine. Look, I’ll call you guys later. Keep handing Bucky’s ass to him, yeah?”

“I’ll bring you a brownie tomorrow.”

At that, Phil smiled. Steve was a great guy. “Thanks, Rogers. See you tomorrow.” He hung up, a weird ball of guilt settling low in his stomach. 

Clint was watching him with narrowed eyes.

“What?” Phil asked.

Clint shook his head. “Nothing. I should go. You’ve got all that homework, after all,” he drawled.

Phil didn’t say anything as Clint tugged his shirt back on. But just as Clint got to the door of his room, Phil said, “So is this, like, a thing? You and me?”

Clint paused with his hand on the door knob. He glance back at Phil over his shoulder. “Sure. A thing.”

Phil swallowed. “I won’t tell anyone.”

Clint shrugged. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter to me.”

 _How many other ‘things’ do you have going?_ Phil thought, but what he said was, “Yeah. Me, neither.”

~

It happened in fits and starts. Clint avoided Phil’s eyes during class, but he still sat in the desk beside him, legs sprawled out and his left knee angled just enough that it nearly touched Phil’s. It wasn’t on purpose, Phil knew, yet he still obsessed over it through an entire lecture on Steinbeck. 

When the bell for the end of the hour rang, Clint stood up and slung his bag over his shoulder. Phil stayed seated and kept his head down, uncomfortably aware that he was half-hard.

“Goin’ to the locker rooms for a while,” he heard Clint say.

Phil jerked his head up. “Huh?”

Clint looked bored. “Locker room. For stuff.” 

“Okay…?”

“You’ve got study hall this period, right?”

Phil nodded. “So?”

“So...I’m going to the locker rooms.”

Phil couldn’t wrap his head around why the hell Clint would tell him any of this, until Clint finally looked up at him from under his lashes. His eyes were very, very dark.

“Okay,” Phil breathed. “Got it.” He shifted in his chair, but he noticed at the last second, just as Clint left the room, that Clint was flushed.

Phil’s study hall hour was always in the library, where he normally met Pepper for their usual studying time. This time he took a seat at one of the tables closest to the doors, waiting until the final bell rang before slipping out into the halls undetected. 

He didn’t know how he instinctively knew Clint would be in the locker rooms reserved for away teams. Maybe it was because no one used them during the school day. The place was dark and quiet, and Phil’s heart was racing by the time he set his bag down and called out, “Barton?”

He came out of nowhere, pushing Phil against the closest bank of lockers and shoving his thigh between Phil’s legs. 

“You’re so dense sometimes,” Clint growled, right before he pulled the neck of Phil’s t-shirt aside and sunk his teeth into Phil’s shoulder.

Phil had a response for that, he really did. He’d think of it later when he wasn’t ten seconds away from coming in his jeans. 

It all happened in a rush so fast, Phil was dizzy when it was all over. His arms had somehow ended up wrapped tight around Clint’s neck, their foreheads pressed together as Clint had jacked them off. Phil watched as Clint ran a thumb slowly over the head of Phil’s spent cock.

“Are you skipping class right now?” Phil managed to ask.

Clint made a low, contented sound in his throat. It was sexy as hell. “I do teacher’s aide shit for Mrs. Schafer. She lets me do whatever I want. I usually go shoot for an hour.” He gave Phil’s dick one last squeezed and dropped his hand, but he didn’t pull away. Phil didn’t lower his arms, either. He drew the tip of his finger along the back of Clint’s neck, over the soft edge of Clint’s hairline. 

“This is better than studying for my History quiz,” Phil said. 

“You actually study in study hall? God, Weasel, you’re such a dork.” Clint rolled his forehead against Phil’s, his left hand—the one not covered in come—sliding up under Phil’s shirt to pinch his side. Phil yelped and laughed in spite of himself as he shoved at Clint’s shoulders.

“Not a dork, just smarter than you.”

“My ass you’re smarter. I know ways to get laid during a school day.”

Phil’s heart gave a hard twitch. He pictured some random guy in this very position, clinging to Clint and smiling all post-coital and dopey at him. 

He dropped his arms. 

“I should…,” Phil started, interrupted by his phone buzzing with a text from Pepper: _Where are you?? You disappeared._

 _Went to my car for something brb_ , he texted back one-handed as he zipped his fly, even though he knew Pepper totally wouldn’t buy it.

“Later, Coulson,” Clint said, and Phil would’ve casually waved him off had Clint not leaned in and practically purred the words right against Phil’s cheek. Phil huffed out a loud breath, wishing he could turn his head and push into a messy kiss that would make Clint shiver and feel as off-kilter as he did. 

“You should give me your number,” Phil said in a rush. “I mean, I should have it anyway for our project stuff. It’d make things easier, y’know?”

Clint made that gorgeous humming sound again. He looked blissed-out and sex-hazy, eyes at sleepy half-mast. Phil wanted that look all to himself, to know he was the only person who made Clint look like that.

He took Phil’s phone and typed in a text, the corner of his lower lip caught between his teeth. When Clint was done, he handed the phone back and said, “There you go.”

“Thanks,” Phil croaked. His mouth was too wet.

“I’m all about making things easy.” The smile Clint gave him was lopsided and deliberately sexual.

Phil mumbled something indecipherable and fumbled for his backpack, every inch of his skin hot to the touch. 

~

He slid into the seat beside Pepper’s as quietly as possible. Pepper wasn’t amused.

“What the hell is going on?” she whispered loudly, smacking Phil on the arm. “I thought you’d been kidnapped or something.”

“Kidnapped from class, really? What, like school pirates?” Phil snorted at his own joke. 

“I’m being serious, and what is up with you lately?”

Phil busied himself with digging out his history book. “Nothing. Like I said, I had to go out to my car.”

“I’m not talking about just now. You’ve been acting super spacey lately. Even Tony’s noticed.”

“I’ve got a lot going on. Games and stuff.”

She shook her head. “No, this is different. It’s almost like…” Pepper leaned closer and squinted, like she was inspecting Phil. “This has been going on since you had that hickey.”

Phil swallowed. “I told you, that was a one-time thing.” The bruise on his shoulder suddenly felt as if a spotlight was shining on it. 

“Yeah, you said that, but I think you’re full of it. You’re still messing around with this guy, aren’t you? Or I guess I should say, you _like him_.”

“All this from me being a little out of it? I’m stressed out, end of story. I’m not fucking anyone,” he added in a low voice, head bowed as he scribbled furiously in his notebook.

“Why can’t you just tell me?” Pepper asked earnestly. “Is it really that bad? I’m sure the guy’s special if you’re so into him—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Phil said abruptly, heart racing.

She snapped her mouth shut, looking hurt, which immediately made Phil contrite. “Sorry, but it’s under control, all right? Don’t worry about me, I’m fine. I swear.”

Pepper sniffed, obviously unconvinced, but didn’t say anything more. 

~

It wasn’t a habit. Habits were things you couldn’t keep yourself from doing. Sex with Coulson wasn’t like chewing your nails; Clint could give it up whenever he wanted to. It was just a really nice a distraction. Lately, when he’d come home after a late practice to Terrance being in a bad mood, Clint wasn’t even phased. He’d nod along when Margo’d remind him to take out the trash and do the dishes, and Terrance’s grumbles about how Clint had yet to get the Harley working barely registered. 

Basically, getting laid on a regular basis mellowed Clint out a lot. 

He hadn’t planned on it becoming a regular thing. That first meet-up in the locker rooms was on a whim, more of a curiosity on Clint’s part to see how far Phil was willing to go with this. He’d let Clint blow him in the privacy of his bedroom, but on school property? Clint hadn’t thought squeaky-clean Star Goalie had it in him. But he’d been wrong—really wrong. 

Phil went to pieces for Clint so, so easily; most of the time he was hard as a rock and leaking everywhere by the time Clint got his hands on him, and he’d make that soft, pleading little whimper, like he wanted to beg but couldn’t say it out loud. He’d look at Clint with those ridiculously pretty eyes all dark and blown wide, and it never took much after that. 

Clint had never been with someone so goddamn sensitive. The fact that he could get Phil off without using his hands was—yeah. Clint thought about that time in Phil’s bedroom more than he’d like to admit, about how it felt to suck Phil’s nipple between his teeth and have him completely fall apart. It was almost as if Phil hadn’t ever…

Well. So what if Phil had been a virgin? It made for short hook-ups; Phil was always ready to go, no matter what. All Clint had to do was pass him in the halls in the morning, coast his thumb covertly down the inside of Phil’s arm and murmur, “Third period,” which was when Phil had study hall. Sometimes Phil would give a bored shrug, or pretend he hadn’t heard Clint. But there was always that tiny, imperceptible shiver whenever Clint touched him.

And like clockwork, Phil was always there in the locker rooms. 

Late at night, alone in his bed, Clint would think about how he was slowly debauching innocent Phil Coulson as he tugged at his dick and bit his lip to keep from moaning out loud. He’d come imagining the sight of Phil’s perfect mouth wrapped around him, sucking him like it was the best thing in the world, his freckled cheeks all blotchy pink.

They’d been fucking around for a few weeks now. It made their project sessions more interesting, not that they got any real work done anymore. But the whole point was to make him and Coulson get along, right? They may not have been planning camp stuff, but Clint figured getting Phil spread out on his bed with his jeans tangled around his legs and his dick in Clint’s mouth was close enough. Fury probably hadn’t pictured it like this, but whatever. 

The disturbing part was how much Clint enjoyed Phil _after_ he’d come his brains out. He’d shudder and cling to Clint, eventually curling into him until his face was tucked into the curve of Clint’s neck. He’d stopped opening his eyes immediately after the tremors ended, his lips parted and tilted up toward Clint, begging to be kissed. Now he ducked his head and let his breathing even out against Clint’s skin as his mouth skimmed back and forth over Clint’s collarbone in a ghost of a kiss.

Clint never called him on it. He liked the swell of protectiveness that unfurled in his chest whenever Phil melted into him, knowing he was stronger than Phil. Besides, cuddling was nice. Clint could see why people enjoyed it.

So for a couple weeks or so, things seemed good. Clint won a weekday tournament for the first time in months, Lucky was nearly back in pizza-eating form, and he was getting off on the regular. While his life was far from perfect, Clint hadn’t felt _content_ in a long time.

Then his boss at the shelter dropped a bomb on him, and everything went back to shit.

“I need the kennel space, Clint,” Laurie said gently as she laid a hand on Clint’s shoulder. “Besides, Lucky’s been fully recovered for a while now. Don’t you want him to be at home with you?”

 _No_ , Clint thought frantically. He’d been slowly but surely paying off the vet bill without a word to Terrance, and in the meantime Terrance had left him alone. One look at Lucky would ruin any sort of tentative truce they had. “I think he needs to stay here a little longer. To be safe.”

Laurie smiled. “He misses you. And I can’t keep turning away other dogs who don’t have homes. If I had the room, I’d let him stay, but I really think he needs to be with you now.”

Clint’s chest felt too tight. Fuck, what was he supposed to do? He couldn’t turn Lucky out into the streets right after he’d recovered from being hit by a goddamn car. But there was no way he’d convince Terrance to let Lucky live with them, not after everything that had happened.

“Can I wait until tomorrow?” he asked in a small voice. “I-I’ve gotta make arrangements with my mom for, uh, Lucky’s food. And bed.”

“Sure. If you want, I could drop Lucky off at your house?”

“No, that’s okay,” Clint said, the multitude of reasons why that was a horrible idea racing through his head. “I’ll come by for him.”

He went home and curled up on his bed facing the wall, wondering what the fuck happened now. Clint shoved one hand under his pillow, and his fingers brushed soft cotton.

He’d yet to give Coulson his shirt back.

 _Coulson_. Maybe he’d know someone who could—maybe he’d think of something—

“Stop it,” Clint hissed. Phil couldn’t help him with this. Clint wasn’t some damsel in distress. He’d deal with it, just like he’d dealt with everything else.

His one concession was texting Nat. _The shelter can’t hold Lucky anymore_ , he wrote.

It was late, but she still wrote back almost immediately, _Where will he go??_

_I don’t know. I’ll think of something._

_I’d take him, but my dad is allergic. :(_

Clint smiled wearily. _I wouldn’t ask you to do that. Lucky’s my problem._

_He’s not a problem, he’s your dog. He deserves a home._

Lucky deserved a lot of things that Clint couldn’t give him. _Like I said, I’ll think of something._

_Have you talked to Phil about it?_

Clint went very still. He knew Nat suspected things were going on between them, but she’d never said so out loud. _Why would I do that?_ he finally typed back.

_Never mind. You’re obviously not thinking straight. Sleep on it and we’ll talk tmrw, ok? <3_

He huffed out a long breath as he wrote, _Ok_ , and dumped his phone on the floor. With his left hand still curled around Phil’s shirt, he forced himself to fall asleep.

~

There was a stupid, childish part of his brain that had always secretly hoped bad shit would disappear after a long sleep. Unfortunately, Clint woke up the next morning without any idea of how to handle the Lucky situation. He thought about biting the bullet and telling Kate about everything; her parents weren’t big on animals, but she’d probably be able to take Lucky for a week or so, just long enough for Clint to think of a plan. Then he remembered the Bishops’ family vacation was that coming weekend, and there was no way they’d be taking Lucky on a Disney World cruise.

Which left Clint back at square one. There was nothing to be done; Lucky was just going to have manage on his own again, with Clint covertly seeing him when he could. 

It made Clint’s chest hurt to think about it.

~

He didn’t realize it was Thursday until he got to school and found Coulson pacing awkwardly around Clint’s locker. He kept his head down, fidgeting with the straps of his backpack. There was something sweet in the anxious movements of Phil’s hands. Clint suddenly remembered how gentle Phil had been with Cupcake, how being faced with a big, goofy dog hadn’t phased him in the least.

Clint swallowed. 

No. He couldn’t keep asking Phil for help. The one time was bad enough. He took a deep breath and forced a lazy smirk, saying, “Stalking me, Weasel?”

Phil startled, then laughed sheepishly. “Sorry, I was, uh. I was gonna text you but I thought…” He trailed off as he met Clint’s eyes. “Wait, what’s wrong?” 

Jesus, was Clint that obvious? “Nothing,” Clint said, grinning wider. “Were you just trying to booty call me?” He leered at Phil, who immediately, predictably blushed.

“I was going to remind you about dinner tonight. My mom’s cooking for us.”

Clint had completely forgotten. “Oh. Right.” _Shit_ , he’d never find time to get Lucky. Why couldn’t _something_ work in his favor for once?

Phil leaned a little closer. “Is that still okay?” 

“Sure, yeah, whatever. Food’s good.” He could handle this, he could. Maybe he could talk Coach into letting him bail early, or he could come down with a mysterious flu bug in seventh period, or—

“Clint.” 

He froze in the middle of slamming his books into his locker. Clint took a long, deep breath, gently setting his Psych text on the top shelve. His knuckles were white from gripping it too tightly. 

Phil was watching him with those stupidly pretty eyes, worrying bottom lip between his teeth. Clint waited for the inevitable _Tell me what happened_ or _Let me help you_ , fully prepared to keep his fake smile on and insist everything was fine.

Phil opened his mouth, shut it, tried again, his shoulders hunched like he expected a blow. 

All he said was, “I’ll see you tonight.”

Clint stared at him. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Phil rubbed at his neck as he rocked back on his heels. He huffed something under his breath before heading off in the opposite direction down the hallway. It sounded a lot like, “Fuck it.” 

Clint suddenly wanted to tell him everything.

~

Phil did not, under any circumstances, think about Clint’s shaking hands from that morning. It wasn’t worth thinking about; he’d learned his lesson. Worrying about Clint always ended in bruises. 

_You’re friends now, though_ , whispered a little voice in his head. But Phil wasn’t even sure what that meant. He could acknowledge that they were...something. There was the sex—lots and lots of sex. Sex without any kissing, or any discussion about it afterward.

Sometimes Phil would covertly watch Clint walk through the halls, the lazy sway of his hips making Phil’s heart pound. He’d come up behind Kate and kiss the back of her head, making her roll her eyes and elbow him affectionately in the chest. Clint would laugh and just sort of ease into her personal space like it was nothing. 

With Natasha, it was much worse. There was a reason half the school thought they were a thing.

But so what if Clint only smiled at him like that when they were alone behind closed doors, and only when he’d just gotten off? Knowing what Clint looked like after he’d come didn’t mean Phil had the right to offer his help. It wasn’t like the guys Clint fucked on the weekends were rushing to his aid whenever Clint had a problem.

Phil didn’t know if Clint was still fucking other guys. He didn’t want to know. He thought about it too much already, and his stress headaches were getting worse. 

He wasn’t expecting to see Natasha walk right up to his table during lunch, smile politely at everyone, and ask, “Phil, do you have a moment?”

“Um. Sure.” He could feel Pepper’s stare boring into him, and Tony made a loud hum of curiosity while Bucky’s eye’s went wide and Steve cocked his head to one side. Phil set his sandwich down and carefully got up from his seat to follow Natasha into the empty gym nearby. 

“So what’s up?” he asked tentatively.

Natasha sighed. “Clint needs a home for Lucky,” she said without preamble.

Phil blinked. “But I thought—”

“The shelter won’t hold him anymore, they don’t have the room. But you know Clint can’t take him back to his house.” Her voice dropped into whisper.

In the weeks they’d been fucking around, Phil had dared to ask about Lucky once. It had happened after they’d come in each other’s hands; Clint had groaned happily as he’d nuzzled his face against Phil’s jaw, pressing their weight against the locker room wall.

“That was nice,” he’d drawled. “Wish we had enough time to go again.”

“We’re not that lucky,” Phil had replied, drowsy and sated. He’d licked at the soft spot behind Clint’s ear, where he’d learned Clint was the most sensitive, and grinned when Clint shivered. “Hey, how’s, ah, your friend?”

“Hmm, Lucky?” Clint had said, apparently too blissed out to bother censoring himself. “He’s good. Really good. Fully healed and everything.” 

“Good,” Phil had parroted back, hiding his smile against the nape of Clint’s neck. 

And that had been that. Or so Phil had thought.

“What do you expect me to do about it?” he asked. “I think you know what happened last time I tried to—help.”

Natasha shook her head and sat down on the closest row of bleachers. She pushed her hair back, genuine desperation in her eyes. “He can’t lose Lucky. It’ll wreck him.”

“Clint’s dealt with worse, hasn’t he?”

“That’s just it. Lucky helps him cope. He needs something decent in his life.”

Phil licked his lips, remembering how broken Clint had been that day in the rain, begging Phil to help save his dog. He also remembered the black eye Clint had shown up with days later. “I still don’t understand where I come in.”

“Look, I know what’s going between the two of you.”

Phil’s stomach swooped. “It’s not what you think.”

“Of course it is. Clint’s a terrible liar.” She smiled and patted Phil’s hand, pulling him down to sit beside her. “You care about him.”

Phil noticed she didn’t add, _And he cares about you._ “We’re friends,” he mumbled.

“In case you didn’t know, Clint doesn’t have a lot of those.”

“So I’m supposed to talk one of _my_ friends into taking Lucky? Yeah, Clint’ll love that.”

“Or,” Natasha said slowly, “you could take him. Temporarily. Until Clint is old enough to be legally on his own.”

Phil stared down at his hands. He couldn’t picture Clint agreeing to let him take his dog, not in a million years. “That’s probably not a good idea.”

“Do you want Lucky back out on the streets?”

He shook his head.

“Do you want Clint getting hurt again?” Natasha asked, softer.

It was incredibly disconcerting how quickly and violently his stomach lurched at the thought. Phil shut his eyes and whispered, “No.”

“Then do this for him. He’ll thank you for it, I promise.” She stood up, still holding Phil’s hand. 

He looked up at her and forced a weak smile. “Hope you’re right.”

“I’m always right. Clint will tell you that any day.”

~

Phil tried his best to come back to the lunch table as nonchalantly as possible, but everyone was staring at him.

“Uh, what the hell was that?” Bucky asked. “If I’d known you were on speaking terms with Natasha Romanov, I’d be asking you for her number.”

“Bucky, geez, you don’t have know about all Phil’s friends,” Steve said, but he looked thoroughly confused. Maybe even a touch hurt.

Phil felt like an ass. “We just talk sometimes. She’s a friend.”

“Does she have something to do with your mystery hook-up guy?” Pepper asked.

“Whoa, whoa, back the train up!” Tony blurted out, holding up both hands. “Since when do you of all people have a hook-up?”

Phil wanted the floor to swallow him whole. “I don’t have a hook-up.”.

“You disappear during study hall for at least twenty minutes practically every day,” Pepper said pointedly. “And you never focus anymore!”

“Oh my god, this makes total sense,” Bucky said, eyes going wide again. “That’s why you’ve been so out of it in practice—you’re getting laid.”

“I don’t—”

“What happened to waiting for marriage?” Tony said in high-pitched anguish. Pepper had the decency to punch his arm.

“Coulson, dude, why didn’t you say anything! We could’ve done shots or something, celebrated the punching of your V-Card!” Bucky proclaimed loudly as he leaned over and shook Phil’s shoulder.

Thank God Clint never ate lunch in the cafeteria.

“Guys, c’mon, leave him alone, he’s obviously embarrassed about it. Phil’s sex life is his own business,” Steve said. He gave Phil a reassuring smile, but there was definitely a flicker of hurt in his eyes.

Bucky sighed. “Fine, fine, whatever, but you’re totally getting me Romanov’s number, right?” 

Steve shoved him, which made Bucky laugh. Tony made a comment about Phil’s tainted virtue, to which Pepper replied dryly, “It’s cleaner than yours.” 

“Touché, my darling,” Tony said, and kissed her cheek. 

Phil pinched the bridge of his nose, a dull ache beginning to throb at the back of his head. 

~

Clint’s sweaty palms had made Lucky’s leash damp by the time he got to Phil’s house. The sun was sinking into the horizon, and Clint kept telling himself, over and over, that all he was asking for was just an evening, just a few hours with Lucky in Phil’s big, open backyard while Clint had dinner. He’d make up an excuse about Margo having guests over who were allergic to dogs; Phil wouldn’t buy it, but his mom probably would. 

He still had no fucking idea what he was going to do with Lucky once he left the Coulsons’ house. Clint did, however, have Nat’s voice in his head saying, “Let Phil help you, please. Trust him.” 

“I can do this,” he whispered to himself, and rang the doorbell.

Phil’s mom answered, wearing one of those frilly aprons Clint associated with old 1950’s black and white TV sitcoms. She was also wearing jeans and sneakers. “Clint, hello! Come on in, dinner’s almost...” Her eyes landed on Lucky. “Oh. You brought a friend?”

Clint flushed all the way down his neck. “Yeah, uh, it’s kind of a long story, Mrs. Coulson—”

“It’s okay, Mom.” Phil suddenly ran down the stairs and came to a skidding stop in the doorway. His hair was wet, and he was wearing a blue polo with the collar sticking up on one side. “That’s Lucky,” he added breathlessly as he dropped to one knee and reached out with both hands to scratch Lucky’s ears. Lucky immediately groaned and all but melted into Phil.

“Hey, boy, how’s it going?” Phil murmured. Lucky butted his nose against Phil’s cheek.

Clint’s heart was beating really hard. He shifted the bag of dog food Laurie had given him under his arm. It crunched loudly. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t going to bring him here, I just...”

“It’s fine.” Phil looked up at him. “Lucky can stay, right, Mom?”

“Sure, I don’t see why not. He’s housetrained, I take it?”

Clint had no idea. He’d never given it much thought, seeing as how Lucky was never indoors. “Um…”

“Yeah, he’s good. Lucky’s really well-behaved.” Phil glanced at Clint out of the corner of his eye. Clint swallowed and nodded, praying to any god that would listen that Lucky didn’t shit all over one of Mrs. Coulson’s expensive rugs.

“Well, the more the merrier, I guess.” She held her hand out for Lucky’s dog food. “I’ll put this out for him in the kitchen with a bowl of water, how’s that sound?”

“Thanks, Mrs. Coulson.”

“Call me Alice. Coulson was my married name,” she replied with a smirk that made Phil roll his eyes. “Dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes if you boys want to go freshen up.”

She left them alone in the foyer with Lucky standing between them. Eventually Phil got to his feet and hugged his arms across his chest. “You should know that Natasha told me everything,” he said very softly, not looking at Clint. 

Every bone in Clint’s body tensed. Damn it, he knew she’d do something like that. It wasn’t just a coincidence that she’d cornered him at the end of the day and begged him to trust Coulson. _Let him help you._

“So?” Clint whispered. 

“So...I’m gonna ask my mom tonight if Lucky can stay here. With us. Until you can take him again.” Phil licked his lips. “I mean, if you want me to. If you don’t, I won’t say anything. I promise.”

Clint wanted to point out that Phil had made promises like that before, but he didn’t have the heart to say it. This was different. Phil sounded completely earnest, like he genuinely wanted to help Clint and his ridiculous dog who would probably pee all over the kitchen floor at any moment.

After all the shit Clint had put him through, Phil still wanted to help him. Something twisted up tight in Clint’s chest, making it hard to breathe. “Doesn’t your mom travel a lot?” he asked.

Phil shrugged. “Yeah, but she’s been talking about getting a dog for a while now, to keep me company while she’s gone.”

Clint didn’t know why it hurt to imagine Phil all alone in his big, empty house. “You’ve got games and shit.”

“I’ll come home at lunch and check on him.” Phil ducked his head. “Or, y’know, I can give you the combination to the garage and you can do it. Whatever.”

“You’d just let me into your house like that?”

“Why not, you’re over here every week as it is. And my mom likes you.” 

Lucky watched them solemnly, as if he knew they were debating his future. He tucked his head up over Clint’s hand, tail thumping gently against the floor.

“If you’re gonna promise me something, all I want is—just—give him back to me when I’m eighteen. Got it?” Clint said. For a horrible moment, he thought he’d cry. He curled his hand around Lucky’s muzzle and bit down hard on his lower lip.

“He’s your dog,” Phil whispered. “He’ll always be your dog.”

Clint nodded jerkily. His vision was starting to blur.

Thankfully, Phil’s mom called, “Boys, dinner’s on!” Clint blinked hard, fumbled with the leash latch on Lucky’s collar until it opened, and mumbled, “Go on, you big lug, go check out your new digs.”

Lucky gave him a big, sloppy grin and trotted off. Clint waited until Phil followed after him before swiping the sleeve of his t-shirt over his eyes.

~

Dinner was some of the best food Clint had ever had. Alice had made spaghetti with homemade meatballs, and even though she and Phil kept making jokes about her lackluster cooking, Clint didn’t have a clue what the fuck they were talking about. He might as well have been at a five star restaurant.

When he’d polished off his second helping—along with his fourth or fifth slice of amazing garlic bread—Alice smiled at him and said, “It’s nice not to have a picky eater in the house.”

“Hey!” Phil cried. “I’m not picky, I have discerning tastes.”

“I seem to remember a certain ten-year-old trying to convince me Flintstone vitamins were a meal.”

“I thought I was being _healthy_.” Phil turned bright pink as he glared at her from across the table. 

Alice shook her head. She leaned over to Clint and stage-whispered, “Here’s a secret about Phil: He’s really not as clever as he lets on.”

“And a secret about my mom is that she’s full of lies,” Phil drawled, and Alice laughed.

Clint kind of really liked watching them together. It reminded him that not all families were bullshit.

“Well, since I’m such a liar, I’ll just say that there is definitely not chocolate pie for dessert,” Alice replied, raising an eyebrow at Phil, whose eyes lit up like a kid at Christmas for a split second. He looked conflicted, like he couldn’t decide between a snappy comeback or flat-out asking for pie.

Instead, they were interrupted by a phone ringing.

Alice sighed loudly. “Sorry, sorry, forgot to put it on vibrate. I’m just going to check to make sure it isn’t the office calling to—oh.” She sighed again as she checked the screen. “Phil, it’s your father. I’ll be right back.” She got up from the table and quickly disappeared into a side room, quietly shutting the door behind her.

Beside him, Phil said, “Fuck,” under his breath.

Clint fidgeted with his empty plate. Lucky was sprawled out in the corner of the dining room, chewing happily on an old tennis ball Alice had found for him, completely oblivious to the sudden mood change. Clint knew it wasn’t any of his business, that he shouldn’t say a word; he was just a guest.

A guest whose dog was staying behind with the hosts.

“Does your dad call a lot?” Clint asked carefully.

“No,” Phil replied. “Only when he wants something.” He sounded angry, yet resigned, and they sat in silence punctuated by the erratic tapping of Phil’s fork against his plate. 

Finally, Alice came back to the table, but her smile seemed forced. “Sorry about that, Clint.”

“No problem,” he said, wishing he could get the happy atmosphere back.

“What did he want?” Phil’s voice was sharp.

Alice took a sip of her wine. “Where were we? Oh! Pie. Clint, you like pie, don’t you? I didn’t bake this one, thank God, it’s from that bakery over on—”

“Mom.” Phil slammed his fork down. “Tell me. Right now.”

“Phil, we can talk about this later—”

“No. I want to know. Is this about Christmas?”

His mom’s shoulders sagged.

Phil dropped his head into his hands. “Goddamn it.”

“Honey...”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him it was your decision.”

“You know what my decision is,” Phil hissed, then tossed his napkin on the table and abruptly stood up. “C’mon, Clint, we need to get some project work done.”

Clint was at a loss. He didn’t want to be rude, but Alice waved them on. “It’s all right, I’ll bring the pie up to you later.” She sounded very tired.

He followed Phil up to his room, anxious and uncomfortable and feeling as if he’d witnessed something he had no right to. Phil’s back was almost painfully straight, and when they were both inside Phil’s room, Phil slammed the door, locked it, and said, “Take your jeans off.”

Clint nearly choked. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Right now?”

“Yeah, right now. Got something better to do than letting me suck your dick?” Phil practically spat the words out, his eyes a little too bright.

Funny how Phil talking dirty to him wasn’t nearly as hot as Clint had secretly imagined. He slowly unbuttoned his fly, even though he was barely hard. “You really wanna do this?”

“Jesus, Barton, since when do you of all people not want to fuck?” He pushed Clint’s hands away and started yanking Clint’s fly open, grinding the heel of his palm against Clint’s cock.

This was all wrong. Clint didn’t want an angry blowjob. Not tonight. If anything, he owed Phil an orgasm or two.

He grabbed Phil’s wrists. Ignoring his protests, Clint manhandled Phil back toward the bed, shoving him down onto the edge as he wedged himself between Phil’s spread knees. He managed to strip that stupid blue polo off, and the protests quickly died off the second Clint licked a wet stripe over Phil’s happy trail. Clint slid a couple of knuckles over the front of Phil’s jeans, and just like that, Phil was arching into his touch and moaning breathlessly.

“Fuck yeah, make me come,” Phil gasped.

God, he was so gorgeous. Clint wanted a recording of Phil begging like that to play on a loop in his brain forever. But he couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened at dinner, or hearing the catch in Phil’s voice. 

“So what’s so bad about Christmas?” Clint whispered against Phil’s stomach, scattering small kisses over his skin.

“Not fucking talking about it,” Phil groaned.

“I didn’t want to talk about Lucky, but here we are.” He scraped his teeth just above Phil’s waistband.

“That’s not the same thing.”

“The hell it’s not. Does your dad want you to stay with him?”

Phil huffed, his hands curled tight into the comforter on the bed. “He...wants to take me skiing in Vancouver.”

Clint snorted. “That’s real rough, Weasel.”

“No, _fuck you._ ” Phil shoved Clint hard enough to send him sprawling back on the carpet. Clint’s knee-jerk response was to shove back, only the look on Phil’s face stopped him. 

He looked on the verge of tears.

“My dad left us when I was twelve,” Phil said in a terribly broken voice Clint never wanted to hear again. “I barely see him, and now he thinks he can offer up this goddamn ski trip to make me forget everything. I’m letting him know that’s it’s way too fucking late for that.”

Clint’s mouth had gone dry. He stared up at Phil, watching his shoulders heave with each breath. 

“You have your own shit. I get that,” Phil whispered. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t have mine, too.” He pushed a shaky hand through his hair, still flushed and sporting wood in his jeans, but Clint didn’t think it was a good idea to touch him again.

He suddenly remembered the day of their fight, and eavesdropping on Phil and his mom. “Does your dad ever come to your games?” Clint asked.

Phil shook his head. “Not once.”

“‘Cause he doesn’t live around here?”

“Because he’s a self-absorbed dick who cares more about his career,” Phil said.

Clint thought about how good Phil was at soccer, good enough to make varsity as a sophomore and then captain the following year. Not a lot of guys accomplished things like that on top of pulling really good grades. Clint didn’t have a lot of experiences with great parenting, but he knew Phil’s dad was a douchebag for not respecting that. 

“Then fuck him,” Clint said softly.

Phil blinked at him, startled. The corner of his mouth twitched. “Yeah?”

“At least he doesn’t punch you in the face when you kinda accidentally rack up a giant vet bill.” Clint tried to laugh, but Phil looked stricken. 

“I know. Dads are crap. We should start a club or something.”

Clint did grin a little at that. “That’d be a really shitty club.”

Phil shrugged. “Probably. No one wants to admit their dads suck.” He folded his hands between his knees and sighed. “I’m sorry you got in the middle of this.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I know, but you don’t have to—”

A soft tap at the door stopped Phil. Clint wanted make him finish. _I don’t have to what?_

“Hey guys, I have pie if you want it,” Alice called.

Phil turned an even darker shade of red as he scrambled to pull his polo back on. Clint rolled to his feet and buttoned his fly, hoping like hell he didn’t look guilty as fuck.

“Thanks,” Phil said when he let her in. 

“Everything all right?” she asked, and Clint could tell she was trying very hard to be casual. She held two plates of chocolate pie in her hands, complete with whipped cream.

Phil took one plate and kissed her cheek. “Everything’s fine.” 

“Well, good. Can’t have you angsting over pie.” She handed Clint his plate and winked at him. Clint couldn’t help smiling back.

Phil cleared his throat. “Actually, there’s something I need to ask you.”

Immediately, Clint’s pulse started to race. He focused on his pie, the tips of his ears heating up.

“Okay, shoot.” Alice took a seat in Phil’s desk chair.

Clint kept his head down.

“Can Lucky stay with us? Just for a year or so.”

Fuck, when Phil said it like that, it sounded like _forever_.

She frowned thoughtfully. “But, why? Can’t you keep him, Clint?”

“It’s...complicated,” Clint mumbled down at his pie.

“Clint’s dad is—allergic. So they can’t have in the house anymore,” Phil said in a rush. “And Lucky’s recovering from an injury, so he shouldn’t be outdoors all the time.” 

“What about practice, Phil? You’ve got games, and Lord knows how much I travel.”

“I’ll make it work. Clint can help, too, right?” 

“I swear. Scout’s honor,” Clint said, knowing Phil would never call him out on the Scouts bullshit in front of his mom.

Alice rolled the desk chair closer to the bed, until she could reach out and lay her hand on Clint’s knee. “Is this what you really want?” she asked. 

The warmth seeping through his jeans from her touch made Clint’s throat grow tight. “Yeah, yes. I don’t want to get rid of him. He’s...special.”

“And your parents are okay with this?”

Clint swallowed. “They don’t care what I do with him,” he whispered, which was mostly the truth.

Alice’s hand stayed on Clint’s knee for a long, quiet moment, until Clint thought his lungs would burst from holding his breath. Finally, she sat back and huffed.

“You two have really come a long way in a few months,” she said. 

“Is that a yes?” Phil asked.

She smiled. “Would it break your heart if I said no?”

Phil’s blush, which had mostly faded, came rushing back with a vengeance. “I...”

“I’m kidding, of course Lucky can stay. But you’re responsible for his food.”

“I’ll take care of that,” Clint said, wanting to fling his arms around her in relief. He also felt a nagging, urgent need to kiss that dumb blush off Phil’s cheeks. He did neither; instead, he inhaled the rest of his pie while he watched Phil hug his mom and murmur, “Thank you.”

“We’ll talk more about this later,” he heard Alice say. Phil bit his lip and nodded.

Clint wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and handed Alice his empty plate when she held her hand out. “Thanks,” he said awkwardly, for both the pie and keeping his dog safe. Clint stood up, hands behind his back, and said the word again, stronger this time.

Something sad flashed in Alice’s eyes. “You’re very welcome, Clint,” she said, and put her arm around Clint’s shoulders in a light hug. He let himself lean into her for a moment; it’d been a long time since an adult had hugged him.

When she was gone and the bedroom door clicked softly behind her, Phil blew out a long breath. “She’s gonna want to know more details,” he said. 

“Are you secretly in trouble?” Clint asked.

Phil shook his head as he sat down on the bed beside him. “No, not really. But she knows we’re keeping something from her. I can tell.”

Clint’s heart thumped harder. “Like what?”

“Like the real reason Lucky can’t stay with you.” Their knees were barely touching. Phil toyed with the folds of his jeans. 

“What about...the other stuff?”

Phil’s hand stilled. “I don’t think she suspects anything. And if she does, she wouldn’t care.” 

“Has she said anything about your boyfriends before?” Clint said without thinking. An instant later, he felt a hot rush of humiliation. What the hell was that even supposed to _mean_?

Phil kept his head bowed, but Clint could see his throat bob. “I’ve never had a boyfriend,” he finally whispered before abruptly getting to his feet and stripping his polo off as he locked his bedroom door.

Clint pretended he wasn’t stunned, that he wasn’t thinking over and over, _God, you really were a virgin._

“Look, what I was going to say before—about that shit with my dad—you don’t have to act like you care. I’m not an idiot, and I’m not—I don’t pretend this is something it’s not.” Phil threw his shirt aside and climbed onto the bed, straddling Clint’s hips. He looped his arms around Clint’s neck, his body giving a languid, slow roll against Clint, like he’d been doing it for years. 

Clint looked up into blue eyes that were dark and full of secrets he’d never know—didn’t _need_ know. At this angle, it would be so easy to tilt Phil’s chin and kiss him. He slid his hands up Phil’s bare sides, all warm, smooth skin that shivered under Clint’s touch. 

“I don’t do boyfriends,” Clint said a little too roughly. 

“I know,” Phil said, and pushed Clint down onto the bed, until he was braced above him, chest to hip. He bit lightly at Clint’s neck, making Clint gasp and arch into him. “The other guys—I don’t care. You can do what you want with them. I won’t say anything.” 

There weren’t any other guys, but Clint kept his mouth shut. Phil was right: Clint could do whatever and whomever the fuck he wanted. He didn’t need Phil’s permission.

He tried to picture Phil with someone else. An image of that big blond Rogers guy he always saw Phil hanging out with popped into Clint’s head. “You don’t have to tell me this,” Clint said. “I do this shit all the time, y’know.” He tightened his grip on Phil’s hips, hard enough to bruise.

Phil gasped into Clint’s neck. “I know,” he said again, so quiet Clint could barely hear him.

“Just ‘cause you’ve got my dog now doesn’t mean you’re—that I’m—”

“Yeah.” Phil’s mouth touched his jaw, too soft and careful. Fuck, why did Clint still want to kiss him so badly? 

“We’re friends, Weasel. Anything else is bullshit.”

“So shut up already,” Phil growled before he slid down Clint’s body and proceeded to give Clint the best goddamn blowjob he’d ever had. 

As Clint laid there gasping and trying to rope his thoughts back together, Phil kicked his jeans and underwear off and said in a low, throaty voice, “Do that thing with your fingers again.” He wrapped his hand around his thick cock, squeezing hard. Clint had learned the signs, and knew Phil was really close.

Clint grinned lazily, his brain still foggy from orgasm. “Just say you wanna get finger-fucked, Coulson, it’s simpler,” he drawled.

Phil whimpered, and his hand tightened. “Whatever, just—”

“You still have that lube?” Clint couldn’t remember when he’d decided to bring it over, but the tiny bottle of K-Y had turned out to be a fantastic idea. Phil was apparently learning he really liked fingers in his ass.

Clint hadn’t brought up actual fucking yet. He didn’t really want to think about that right now..

Phil begging Clint to come was one thing, but Phil begging with Clint’s fingers buried in his ass was another. He spread his legs wide, braced on all fours, his face tucked into a pillow. Clint used a little too much lube, making everything messy and slick, but Phil’s ass clenched around him perfectly, making Clint imagine what Phil would feel like around his dick. He added a third finger at the last second—the first time he’d ever done so—and at the first initial push inside, Phil tensed and groaned into his pillow, shoulders shaking.

“Fuck, _fuck_ , that’s—that’s a lot, that’s too much, shit, Barton—”

“‘s okay, I got you,” Clint murmured, and he kissed the top of Phil’s spine, twisting his fingers as his free hand curled around Phil’s wet cock.

Phil gave a muffled yelp and came with a sharp, jerking pulse into Clint’s hand. It felt like it went on forever; when Clint eventually rolled Phil onto his back, there was come splattered all the way up Phil’s chest, nearly reaching his collarbone.

He was a sloppy, rumpled, flushed mess, and Clint had never seen anything more gorgeous.

“I need a nap,” Phil slurred through a sleepy smile.

Clint finally gave in to the urge to kiss his cheek, over all those ridiculous freckles. “You should probably shower.”

“Should probably change my sheets, too, but there’s only so much hand-eye coordination I have going on at the moment.” He glanced down at the come all over his chest and winced. 

A bark came from downstairs. Lucky didn’t sound upset, but Clint went on alert. “I better go check on him. He’s probably wondering where the hell I went.”

Phil hummed absently, still spread-eagle across the tangled sheets. Clint got up and started to dress, deliberately putting his back toward the bed so he couldn’t stare at all that naked skin. 

“Clint?” Phil suddenly asked in a soft voice.

He turned around once his jeans were buttoned. “Yeah?”

“I was thinking...you could…” Phil propped himself up on his elbows, his hair all sticking up every which way. “You could fuck me. If you want to.”

Clint’s mouth went dry, and his dick gave a hard twitch. “Do you want that?”

“You’ve got condoms, right?”

Clint had condoms. Shitloads of them. But the thought of bringing them over here was...huge. Overwhelming. 

Not to mention the fact that it wasn’t usually Clint who normally did the fucking.

He must’ve made some weird face, because Phil’s expression kind of crumpled. “Never mind, it was just a thought. Forget about it.”

Clint didn’t know what to say to that. Was Phil trying to make this more complicated than it already was? Like it wasn’t bad enough that simple handjobs tied Clint up into knots all the time? As far as Clint was concerned, fucking was right up there with kissing. It was too much.

“I don’t think that’s such a great idea, Weasel,” Clint said, suddenly angry at everything and hating how much he couldn’t look away from Phil’s painfully open face. Which was probably why he added with a smirk, “I mean, you’re still mostly a virgin, anyway, right?”

Phil’s whole body blushed. “We’ve done everything else.”

“I don’t fuck virgins.”

“What if I fucked you?”

The liquid rush of heat Clint felt at hearing Phil say the words just made him angrier. “If I want to get fucked, I know where to go. With you I just get off.”

Phil shut his eyes, but they both knew he couldn’t say shit; he’d already said he didn’t care about the other guys Clint messed around with. 

That didn’t stop Clint from wanting him to say something, anyway. 

“You should go see Lucky,” Phil finally said as he slowly got his feet and started cleaning himself off with a Kleenex. With his head bowed and sloped shoulders, he looked so… _defeated_.

Whatever. Phil knew who and what Clint was coming into this. Clint wasn’t going to apologize, or feel sorry for him.

If Phil wanted a boyfriend, maybe he could ask Rogers.


	7. Chapter 7

A year earlier, Clint had met a guy named Brayden at a tournament. Until that moment, no one had ever come close to beating Clint. Brayden, however, had given Clint a run for his money, enough to make Clint sweat a little. 

It hadn’t hurt that he’d been hot as shit, all tall and lanky with freckles everywhere.

After the match, Brayden had asked Clint if he could bum a smoke. 

“I won. You should be giving _me_ a smoke,” Clint had drawled.

Brayden had given him a long, slow smile and replied, “Raincheck?”

Ten minutes later, Brayden had had Clint pressed up against the locked door of the men’s room with Clint’s jeans down around his knees. Clint had kept Brayden’s number in his phone ever since.

The night after he left Lucky at Phil’s house, Clint called Brayden. It was Friday, Margo and Terrance were visiting Margo’s sister, and Clint had the evening to himself. But what he’d hoped would be just hanging out on the couch with a pizza box and bad cable TV turned into him thinking about his dog and wondering if he should stop by to see him. Which then immediately lead to thoughts of Phil and the soft little sounds he’d make when he begged Clint to make him come.

“Fuck this,” Clint growled and pulled Brayden’s number up in his phone. He needed to get laid— _really_ laid, not this part-time handjob bullshit. He’d spent too much time getting wrapped up in this crap with Coulson. 

What Clint needed was a reality check.

“Barton?” Brayden answered with a laugh. “Jesus, it’s been a while. What’s up? Haven’t seen you on the tournament circuit lately.”

“Yeah, I’ve been, uh. Busy.” Clint closed his eyes and pictured Brayden’s broad shoulders and wide hands. “Listen, what are you doin’ tonight?”

Brayden laughed again. “Why, you got something planned?” 

“Maybe. If you don’t mind driving into town to pick me up.”

“That’s a forty minute drive.”

“You’ve done it before. I’ve made it worth your while.” Clint licked his lips.

Brayden hummed, his voice dropping into a low purr. “Yeah, you have,” he said. “Your old man got some beer to steal?”

“I’ll see what I can find.” 

Clint was waiting for him on the front porch when Brayden pulled up in his Jeep. The six-pack of Bud Light sitting at his hip wasn’t Terrance’s, because Clint would rather pilfer beer from the next door neighbor’s cooler than touch his foster dad’s stash. 

“You’re a pain in my ass,” Brayden said as Clint climbed into the car. But he was grinning, especially when Clint dug his hand into the front of Brayden’s shirt and reeled him into a hard, biting kiss.

This Clint could do. He could kiss Brayden forever and it wouldn’t mean a damn thing. He wouldn’t be thinking about it in the morning, or wondering what the fuck it all meant. He wouldn’t be picturing pretty blue eyes staring up at him, asking for things Clint didn’t want to think about.

Brayden drove them to a parking lot of an abandoned furniture store on the edge of town, a place they’d gone before that was dark and quiet. They shotgunned a couple beers, then Clint crawled into Brayden’s lap and proceeded to make quick work of their clothes. 

“Goddamn, you’re fine,” Brayden breathed against Clint’s collarbone, teeth scraping against skin, and Clint wanted to say something snappy, but he was focused on keeping his eyes open. Brayden’s hands were everywhere, and Clint wanted to see him, wanted to remind himself that he could have that gut-clenching rush of overwhelming sensation with anyone, because sex was sex. 

And yet...it wasn’t. Brayden touched him with confident assurance, not tentativeness. He kissed Clint like it was a game, not something he needed desperately. He didn’t leave marks on Clint’s skin and then trace his fingertips over them like they were works of art. Brayden didn’t say Clint’s name like it was a secret just between the two of them.

Brayden was everything Phil wasn’t. Clint grit his teeth and made himself believe it was exactly what he wanted.

When it was over and the Jeep’s windows were fogged up, Brayden yawned as he rolled off the condom and stuffed it into an old McDonald’s bag. “Wanna hang out until you’re up for another round?” he asked, leaning across the gear shift to nip at Clint’s mouth.

Clint forced a smile. He needed to see his dog. Too bad said dog was currently residing in the last place Clint wanted to be. “Nah, that was my last condom. I could go for a burger, though.” The former was a lie, but the latter was true.

Brayden snorted. “I would’ve worn a clean shirt if I’d know we were going on a date.” 

“I don’t date,” Clint replied, wiping the condensation off the passenger window. 

~

“You look terrible.”

Phil glanced up from where he’d laid his head against his locker to find Pepper giving him a worried look. “I’m fine,” he mumbled.

“You don’t even sound decent enough to make that lie convincing. Is it your head again?” she asked quietly.

He winced. Pepper always spotted his migraines. But unfortunately, there wasn’t enough time for him to go home for his meds. He had a midterm in his History class, and a game that evening that pretty much determined the fate of the rest of the season. 

“I’ve survived worse,” he said, thinking of his pain meds sitting in the bathroom cabinet.

“Can you call your mom?”

“She’s in San Diego until tomorrow.”

Pepper shook her head. “I’ll go by your house, or get Tony to—”

“No, Pep, I said I was fine. Seriously.” Phil made himself smile as he patted her shoulder. “I appreciate the concern, though.”

“Your mystery boyfriend could grab your meds, maybe?” she asked, one eyebrow raised.

Phil gave a weak laugh. “Yeah, sure.” Clint hadn’t looked at him since Thursday night, had been actively avoiding Phil since the whole talk about...things Phil should’ve never, ever have brought up. The horrified look in Clint’s eyes at the mere mention of—

He scrubbed a hand over his face. God, Phil hated that he couldn’t keep himself from getting all soppy and earnest after sex. He was a fucking idiot, and now Clint didn’t even want to be in the same room with him, let alone touch him. Why did Phil have to say anything at all? Why couldn’t he just keep his mouth shut and take what Clint gave him?

“So stupid,” Phil muttered under his breath as he slammed his locker shut.

“What?” Pepper frowned at him.

“Nothing. I’ve got a midterm to take.” He turned away before Pepper could fuss at him anymore.

But Phil didn’t pay attention to where he was going, and he ran straight into Clint. The force of the collision jarred Phil’s head, and he hissed in pain before he gasped, “Sorry.” He waited for Clint to disappear, ignore him like he’d been doing since Friday.

Instead, he heard Clint ask, “You okay?”

Phil slowly raised his eyes to meet Clint’s. “I’m...it’s just a headache.”

Clint leaned closer, close enough that Phil could smell hints of soap and aftershave. His mouth went wet. Fuck, he was so, so lame. “Just a headache?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said,” Phil replied a little too harshly. He watched Clint’s throat bob as he swallowed, and in the process Phil’s gaze skimmed over the curve of Clint’s neck where it connected to his shoulder, right above his collarbone.

Flaring out from the edge of Clint’s t-shirt was a bruise. A dark, round purple smudge. Mouth-shaped. It looked fresh, only a few days old.

Phil knew—he’d been careful not to bite Clint the last time in his room, in case his mom saw anything—the bruise wasn’t his.

A cold fist curled up in his stomach, and for a moment his headache was forgotten. All Phil could think about was the nameless guy who’d marked Clint, who’d touched him and kissed him all he wanted, because Clint only gave Phil stipulations. Phil wasn’t good enough to kiss.

 _With you I just get off._ Clint’s words pounded through Phil’s brain, blaring and stark. Phil wanted to punch something, or someone. Mostly the guy— _all_ the guys—who’d had Clint in ways Phil never would.

And yet now Clint was crowding into Phil’s space, squinting at Phil like he was _concerned_ about him, like he actually gave a shit about Phil. 

“I could...I dunno, steal you some Advil?” Clint said, and the little crooked, shy smile he gave Phil made Phil’s throat tighten. 

He didn’t want anything from Clint. Phil was done being stupid.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” Phil growled, hating how rough his voice sounded, like he was close to tears. His migraine suddenly came rushing back.

The smile immediately slid right off Clint’s face. Something flickered in his eyes, and if Phil were still being a hopeless idiot, he would’ve thought it was hurt. “Hey, fuck you, Weasel, I’m just being nice.”

“I don’t need you to be _nice_ ,” Phil sneered. “I’m not in the mood to blow you, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

Clint’s expression darkened. “I didn’t say that,” he said, almost in a whisper.

“You didn’t have to.” The warning bell rang, making the pain scream in Phil’s head. He shut his eyes, grit his teeth, and with his head bowed he shoved his way past Clint and ran the rest of the way to class.

~

Clint didn’t work on Monday afternoons, so he threw himself into practice, attacking targets with a vengeance. He figured if he concentrated hard enough he wouldn’t think about Phil’s face all scrunched up in pain, or the way he more or less told Clint to fuck off.

The thing was, Clint had been thinking about Phil nonstop since the night in Brayden’s car, which was the exact opposite of what was supposed to have happened. Brayden should’ve fucked all thoughts of Phil right out of Clint’s head. 

“D’you know anything about migraines?” he asked Kate, who was shooting at the target beside his.

She lowered her bow and stared at him. “Uh, not really? My mom gets them sometimes, I guess—why?”

Clint shrugged. “No reason.” 

“Are you sick or something? You _have_ been acting really weird lately…”

“Don’t worry about it.” Nat could read him like a book, but Kate tended to be a bit more oblivious. Sometimes Clint thought she did it on purpose.

“By the way, Nat and I are going to the game tonight. Since you and Coulson are buddies now, you should give soccer another chance.” There was a sing-song lilt to her voice. Clint wondered if maybe she wasn’t so oblivious after all. 

His blush deepened. “Naw, I’m good. Need the practice.” Phil wouldn’t want him there, anyway. Not that it mattered, not that Phil had ever asked Clint to be at one of his games…

Shit, since when did he ever care about this crap? Clint glowered at the target and released another arrow.

He heard her sigh loudly and then felt a hand on his arm, forcing him to lower his bow. “Phil’s really good, y’know,” Kate said. “Like, _really_ good. He’s gonna get a full ride somewhere, maybe even go pro.”

Clint shrugged off her hand. “So?”

“So, you should come see him in action. I think you’d enjoy it.” She waggled her eyebrows.

“Katie—”

“No, Nat already told me you’re in denial. I don’t have time for that.”

He spluttered. “I’m not in _denial_ about anything!”

“Uh-huh.” Kate squinted at him. “What if I told you there was a rumor that Coulson and Steve Rogers were a thing?”

Clint felt his stomach immediately drop, and his heart started pounding. “That’s not—he’s never even had—who told you that?”

She threw both arms up in the air. “I _knew it!_ ” Kate whooped. “God, Nat wasn’t kidding. Holy crap.”

“Seriously, who told you Coulson was—with someone?” Clint fought hard to keep his voice even, to not picture Phil smiling sweetly at that big blond Boy Scout. 

“No one told me, I made it up. Although I once heard Coulson had a crush on Steve, but that was years ago.” She beamed at Clint and poked him in the chest. “You’re not denying anything, though.”

“There’s nothing to deny. We’re friends. We’re doing a project together for Fury. End of story.” Phil had had a crush on Rogers? For how long? Did he still have a thing for him?

“All the more reason you should come to the game with us.” Kate looped her arm around Clint’s. “C’mon, I’ll buy you popcorn and promise not to scream too loudly for your hot goalie boyfriend.”

“ _Never_ call him that,” Clint hissed, which only made Kate snort with laughter. He couldn’t put up much of a fight after that.

~

Phil had played a lot of games in his life, but none of them had ever compared to the absolute misery of that night’s regional qualifier. Winning meant his team would go on to play for a district title and then go on to state competition. Everything was riding on Phil performing at his best.

So even with his vision blurry and pain screaming in his head, Phil played as hard as he possibly could. And by the skin of their teeth, his team won by one point, thanks to Phil blocking what would’ve been a tying goal with seconds left on the clock.

While the whole field went nuts and teammates shouted his name, Phil sunk to his knees and tried to breathe past the nausea all the noise caused. The tips of his fingers felt numb.

“Coulson, hey, you all right?” Bucky asked, dropping down beside him. He grasped Phil’s shoulder and shook him good-naturedly. Phil bit back a moan.

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” he managed to say as he struggled to his feet.

Bucky didn’t look convinced, but Phil could tell he was trying hard not to smile. The rest of the guys ran up to Phil and started congratulating him, hugging his shoulders and ruffling his hair. Phil just wanted to curl into a ball and hide until the pain stopped.

“You’re the hero of the night, dude!” someone yelled, and Bucky grinned.

“C’mon, we need to celebrate,” he said.

Phil grimaced. “I—I can’t.” It was taking a lot of effort just to walk to the locker rooms.

Bucky frowned. “Seriously, did you jack up your knee or something? I can get Coach to—”

“No, it’s cool, I just—just need to go home, that’s all.” He’d done what he needed to do, and now all he wanted in the world was to get to his meds and sleep for a million years.

He changed slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements. The locker room was an absolute chaos of cheers and yelling. Phil shut his eyes and put his head in his heads, telling himself he could make it just twenty more minutes until he was home. If only his mom wasn’t out of town.

He forced a smile when his coach congratulated him—”Couldn’t have done it without you, Coulson”—and dragged his duffel bag onto his shoulder. All he had to do was make it to his car, drive twelve blocks to his house, and then climb ten steps to his room. He waited another half hour until the locker room was quiet and empty and slowly made his way out to his car.

Phil didn’t plan on a couple rival team players to be waiting for him, however.

“Hey, asswipe, you think you’re such a hot shot?” the first guy said. Phil vaguely recognized him as the other team’s goalie.

The second guy, who was taller and stockier, shoved Phil’s shoulder. “Bet we could beat the shit out of you right now and you wouldn’t even do anything about it.”

They were right. Phil wouldn’t do anything about it, but not for the reasons they thought. Every last bit of strength he had left was being used to keep himself upright. He could barely keep his eyes open. 

“Let it go, guys,” he said, hating how weak his voice sounded. Of course this would happen after the rest of his team had cleared out, eager to go drink somewhere and celebrate. No one was around.

“We will, as soon as we fuck you up,” the taller guy said. He grabbed Phil by the front of his t-shirt and slammed him back against the side of the building. Pain screamed through every inch of Phil’s body, making him grit his teeth and moan against his will.

“D’you hear that? This’ll be sweet,” the shorter guy drawled with a laugh as he grabbed Phil’s chin and hauled his fist back.

Phil held his breath and waited for the punch.

“Hey!” a familiar voice yelled. “Douchebags! Lookin’ for a real fight?” It was almost funny, because Phil could swear it sounded like Clint. How pathetic that Phil was desperate enough to hallucinate Clint coming to his rescue.

Only the next thing Phil knew, Tall Guy had suddenly released his hold and was being thrown onto the ground by someone who looked just like Clint. Phil blinked hard and watched as said Clint look-a-like kicked him straight in the stomach. 

“Dude, this doesn’t concern you!” Shorter Guy said and made an attempt to pull Clint Look-a-Like off his teammate.

“I think it does, fuckwad. My school, my team, my goalie.” And the way he said it, the way he smirked at the end of the sentence right before he tackled the second guy set off alarm bells in Phil’s head.

_Clint._

Phil slid down the wall, exhausted and speechless. Clint punched Shorter Guy in the nose, and his knuckles came back bloody. Tall Guy tried to grab Clint around the ankles, but Clint had quick reflexes—Phil knew first-hand—and he easily slid out of the guy’s reach. The three of them wrestled on the ground in a blur of fists and knees until Phil heard his coach call out, “What the hell’s going on here?”

The brawl separated immediately. Clint stayed sprawled on the ground, panting and sweaty but looking very satisfied. Shorter Guy held his nose as blood seeped through his fingers, and his teammate had the makings of a fierce black eye.

Phil’s heart was racing so fast he could feel it in his throat.

Coach pointed at the two rival teammates. “Aren’t you boys supposed to be on your bus home?”

Tall Guy mumbled, “Yes, sir.”

“I should get your coach, have you both suspended. But from the looks of it, he’ll see the damage you caused and do it himself.” He raised an eyebrow at Clint. “Barton, care to tell me what happened?”

Clint sat up and licked the corner of his mouth where his lip was split. “These two were attacking Coulson, sir. In case you didn’t notice, he’s not exactly up for defending himself.”

Coach looked at Phil. The angry pinch between his eyes melted into concern. “Is that true, Coulson?”

“I’m fine,” Phil heard himself say for the millionth time. He couldn’t stop staring at Clint, who hadn’t looked at him once since the fight started.

“You don’t look it. Barton, take Coulson home. You two—” He glared at the rivals. “—get back to your damn bus. I’ll be calling your AD in the morning.”

They scurried off without comment. Clint sighed heavily and flopped back on the ground.

Coach asked, “You sure you don’t need anything, Phil?”

He shook his head slowly. “Just need to get home.”

“I’ll take care of it, sir,” he heard Clint say. 

Coach laid a gentle hand on Phil’s shoulder. “Take tomorrow off,” he said quietly. “I’ll clear it with Principal Xavier. All right?”

Phil’s throat felt tight. He nodded, afraid to say anything. 

When they were alone, Clint rolled to his feet, rubbing the back of his hand over his mouth. Then he crouched down in front of Phil and finally met his eyes.

“C’mon,” he whispered, and held out his hand.

Phil took it, leaning all his weight against Clint’s chest. He was beyond caring about his pride; it just felt good to be taken care of. Clint’s arm was heavy and firm around his shoulders as he half-carried Phil to his car. 

“Jesus, Coulson, why’d you do this to yourself?” Clint muttered. He propped Phil up against the door as he dug the keys out of Phil’s pocket.

“Had to. People were counting on me. Can’t let ‘em down.” Phil’s words were beginning to slur together. He couldn’t keep his eyes open, the lights of the parking lot were too bright.

“No one wants you to kill yourself, dumbass.” The passenger door clicked open and Phil let himself be manhandled into the seat. He tipped his head against the window and whimpered at the steady throbbing behind his eyes.

“Why’d you really fight them?” Phil asked when he heard Clint climb into the driver’s side and start the car. “Didn’t even...know you were at the...at my game.”

Clint didn’t say anything for several long moments. Phil could heard the car pull onto the side street, the quiet ping of a turn signal.

“Wanted to see you in action,” Clint eventually replied. He never answered the first part of Phil’s question.

~

Clint’s hands were still shaking when he pulled into Phil’s driveway. The last twenty minutes were a blur, and his knuckles hurt from punching that asshole in the nose. His lip was bleeding, but nothing too terrible. Clint had had worse.

He was so damn lucky Phil’s coach hadn’t suspended him. Clint wouldn’t have protested, though; he’d known, in the back of his mind, that he shouldn’t have gone after those guys. He already had one fight to his name on school grounds.

But the image of Phil all pale and slumped against the wall, looking utterly beaten as that dickbag had jerked him around—Clint only remembered everything in his brain sort of fuzzing out and turning red. He’d been on his way back home from the game, having turned down Kate’s offer to drive him. Clint had wanted to be alone for a while to think about how graceful Phil had been out on the field, and how much it hurt to watch him be so perfect. He’d noticed Phil’s stiff movements at times, and the way he’d grimaced each time he blocked a ball, but Clint would never have guessed Phil was as bad off as he was. 

Seeing how fragile Phil had looked in the face of that rival goalie made Clint want to burn the world down. It was a terrifying, overwhelming thought.

Phil made a soft sound of protest when Clint opened the passenger side door. “Almost there,” Clint said, looping Phil’s arm around his neck. “Is your mom home?”

“No, not ‘til tomorrow,” Phil murmured. He turned his face into Clint’s neck. “My house key’s on—”

“Yeah, got it.” Clint fumbled with Phil’s key ring, picking one at random. He was in luck; the front opened easily, and with steady hands Clint guided Phil through the foyer to the stairs. Lucky was there almost immediately. He came to a stop at Clint’s side and woofed.

“Not right now, dude, okay?” Clint said, giving Lucky one quick, cursory pat. 

“He can come upstairs. He sleeps with me sometimes,” Phil said, words slightly muffled into Clint’s neck.

Clint swallowed, imagining Lucky curled up on Phil’s bed. “Tryin’ to make me jealous, Weasel?” He tried to laugh as he carefully walked Phil up the stairs. Phil clung tightly to him, his shoulders hunched. He smelled like sweat and grass.

“He’ll sleep with you someday.” Phil’s words were getting progressively more slurred. Clint nudged Phil’s bedroom door open with his foot, and for once he was happy to know the layout of the room so well. He avoided turning the light on and all but carried Phil the rest of the way to his bed, where he pulled back the covers and did his best to lay Phil down as gently as possible. Phil moaned the second his head hit the pillow, but it didn’t sound painful.

Clint went to work untying Phil’s sneakers. “Where’s your meds?” Lucky sat at Clint’s feet, eyes solemn and watchful.

“In the—the bathroom cabinet. In the hall. ‘s got my name on it.” Phil buried his face in his pillow.

Sure enough, there was a bottle of codeine in the cabinet, half full. How often did Phil get migraines like this to warrant a doctor’s prescription? Clint checked the recommended dosage, then grabbed a glass of water. 

Phil managed to sit up long enough to swallow his pills and drink all the water before immediately burrowing back under the covers. 

Clint just stood there holding an empty glass. He didn’t know what to do next. 

“I owe you,” he heard Phil say, small and almost too soft to hear. 

Clint shook his head. “You’re an idiot if you think that.” Lucky butted his head against Clint’s leg, reminding him once again that if it weren’t for Phil, Lucky’d probably be dead.

“I don’t want you to get in trouble.” 

“Shut up and go to sleep,” Clint said roughly. Then he said to Lucky, “C’mon, Pizza Dog, you need a trip outside.” Lucky woofed, immediately heading downstairs. Clint followed after him and let him out the front door. As if he’d been housebroken for years, Lucky did his job without even being asked. Clint wondered if Phil had been training him.

When Lucky was finished, Clint said, “I’ll see you later, okay?”

Lucky cocked his head.

“I’m not staying, dude.”

Lucky blinked at him and gave a low woof. He turned around trotted back to the door, glancing over his shoulder at Clint like he fully expected him to follow.

The house was eerily quiet and dark. Clint thought of Phil curled up in his bed, in pain and alone. Lucky was hardly a guard dog.

Maybe _he_ was the idiot, or maybe he was a masochist at heart. Either way, he couldn’t make himself leave. Instead, he went back inside, locked the door behind him, and climbed the stairs to Phil’s room. Phil was right where Clint had left him, the top of his head barely visible from underneath the blankets. 

Clint rubbed both hands over his face. “Screw it,” he whispered to himself.

He crawled onto the bed on the opposite side and laid down on top of the comforter, his chest up against Phil’s back as he settled his right arm into the curve of Phil’s hip. A second later, the bed shifted as Lucky jumped up on the mattress, curling up at Clint’s feet.

Clint closed his eyes as his lips skimmed feather-soft over Phil’s nape. Phil sighed, long and deep, but didn’t push Clint away.

He’d just stay until Phil fell asleep. Then he’d leave.

~

Phil woke slowly, the light in his room an unfocused gray. The clock on his nightstand read 8:24 in the morning. And his head, thankfully, _blissfully_ , didn’t hurt anymore. 

He rubbed his face against his pillow and took stock of himself. Everything inch of him was still bone-tired, but he wasn’t in pain. The tips of his fingers were no longer numb, and he could open his eyes completely and take in the early morning light without flinching. Phil remembered his coach’s promise to tell Principal Xavier that Phil wouldn’t be at school that day. Phil felt a little guilty, but his tests were taken and practice that afternoon would be light following a big game. 

He could let himself take a break.

The rest of last night’s events started to come back to him, though they were a bit fuzzy in spots. Phil remembered Clint practically carrying him up the stairs to his room and giving him meds, but everything else faded to black after that. He vaguely recalled Clint demanding he go to sleep…

Phil heard a soft snuffling sound behind him. It didn’t sound like Lucky; most mornings he’d already trotted off to get breakfast. Soon Phil would need to go down to the kitchen and refill Lucky’s food bowl and let him outside. He stretched slowly and rolled onto his side toward the center of the bed.

He came face to face with a slightly rumpled Clint who was fully dressed and dead to the world. His face was smashed into the spare pillow, and Phil could see the remains of a red, ugly cut at the corner of Clint’s mouth where he’d gotten punched. His eyelashes were almost a pale blond, long and delicate in the early morning light, all spread out over his sleep-flushed cheeks. 

Clint’s arm was stretched toward Phil, his right hand splayed against the comforter. Like he’d spent the night reaching for Phil—or holding onto him.

Phil’s heart thumped hard. Clint had really, honestly spent the night in his bed. And absolutely no sex had been involved.

They’d never had a moment like this where things were just...quiet and easy. Phil never got to simply lie next to Clint and take him in, memorize the tiny scar above his eyebrow or way his day-old stubble was splotchy blond and brown. He wondered if anyone else had ever watched Clint sleep, or noticed how young he really looked without all his hard edges. 

_He stayed with me_ , Phil thought in amazement. It didn’t seem possible. Maybe Phil was high on his pain meds and dreaming it all. 

Because, yes, in his room, in the hushed morning light, Phil could admit that he _would_ dream up something like this. He’d thought about Clint curling up next to him, around him, tucking Phil tight against his chest while the two of them whispered to each other in dark as they fell asleep. And when Phil would wake the next day, he’d pictured Clint just like this: soft, vulnerable but not weak, and so intimately beautiful he made Phil’s chest ache.

Phil swallowed tightly as he reached out and traced his finger over the curve of Clint’s bottom lip. Clint gave a sleepy little moan, pushing into Phil’s touch like a cat. Phil’s thumb skidded over warm, smooth skin.

If this were still Phil’s dream, he’d kiss Clint awake. Clint would open his eyes and smile and kiss Phil back, whispering, “Morning, Weasel,” against Phil’s mouth.

But it wasn’t a dream at all. In the reality, Clint frowned sleepily, grunted low in his throat, and suddenly bolted upright in bed.

“Oh fuck, what time is it?” 

Phil rolled onto his back and shoved a hand through his hair. “Nearly nine,” he said.

“ _Fuck_ , I’m gonna miss first period.” Clint scrambled off the bed, gangly and uncoordinated in his half-awake state, his hair an absolute wreck. There was a pink pillow crease across his cheek.

Then, as if finally coming to full consciousness, Clint came to a stop at the foot of the bed and blinked at Phil. “Um...how’re you feeling?” he asked.

“Better. A lot better. Thanks,” Phil said with as much casualness as possible. He hoped Clint couldn’t take one look at him and tell that he’d just spent the last ten minutes fantasizing about fucking _cuddling_.

Clint nodded, his blue eyes still a bit sleep-fogged. “Good, that’s—good.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I gotta run. Sorry I fell asleep on you.”

Phil didn’t know if he should say he didn’t mind, that he’d rather wake up with Clint beside him than alone, or that he didn’t care. Neither option seemed like a good idea, not with his head still a bit fuzzy and the urge to kiss Clint nearly overwhelming. So instead, he swallowed hard and mumbled, “It happens.”

Clint paused, his expression unreadable. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again and said, softly, “Last night, at the game—you were amazing.” 

Before Phil could wrap his head around that statement, Clint was gone, down the stairs and out the front door.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something had changed, but Phil was afraid to bring it up. Talking about stuff never lead to anything good.

After the night in Phil’s room, Clint knew something had changed. He didn’t know how or why, only that Phil smiled a little bit more at him and Clint...liked it. A lot. 

They still messed around in the locker rooms, and they didn’t talk about doing the other stuff. But sometimes Clint just wanted to watch the slow blush creep over Phil’s cheeks when Clint touched him in little, simple ways. The breathless sounds Phil would make whenever Clint kissed the soft spot behind Phil’s ear were so damn hot, Clint would think about them for the rest of the day. 

He’d think about _Phil_ all day, regardless of whether or not the sex happened. It didn’t help that Phil would catch Clint looking at him during English class and duck his head, grinning as he kicked his foot playfully against Clint’s under his desk. He wouldn’t look at Clint again for the rest of class, but Clint would have an anxious little flutter in his belly as he waited for the bell to ring. Especially if it was a Thursday, because Thursdays meant Clint was allowed to have Phil alone in Phil’s room, free to do whatever they wanted. Whatever Clint wanted.

He thought about Phil _all the time_ , and that was a big problem. It was dangerous, and Clint knew better.

He reminded himself of this when he saw Phil walking through the halls at school with Steve Rogers, smiling that same smile Clint thought was reserved just for him. Rogers made some joke and Phil laughed, nose all scrunched up and his cheeks pink as he knocked his shoulder into Rogers’. 

Clint bit the inside of his lip and abruptly thought, _Fuck you, Boy Scout, he’s mine._

The bottom dropped out of his stomach. Clint felt light-headed, a little nauseous. Without thinking, Clint ran out of the building and around the corner to the closest alcove where the smoker kids hung out. Thankfully, the spot was deserted. Clint let his backpack drop to the ground with a loud _thump_ as he dug out his cigarettes with shaking hands, muttering, “Get your shit together, Barton.”

He was so fucked. So, so utterly fucked. And to make matters worse, his lighter was broken.

 _”Damn_ it,” Clint growled as he threw the thing against the closest wall. The lighter bounced harmlessly off the bricks, which did nothing to calm Clint’s racing heart. 

He should’ve let this thing with him and Phil die out weeks ago. And earlier that day, he definitely shouldn’t have let Phil—all post-orgasm hazy and beaming at Clint like he’d done something amazing—wrap his arms around Clint’s neck and place a tiny, gentle kiss against the side of Clint’s jaw. 

“Your shirt’s on inside out,” he’d whispered into Clint’s ear, and they’d both giggled like they were drunk, Clint’s hands splayed over Phil’s hips, the tips of his fingers pushed under the hem of Phil’s t-shirt.

“Thanks,” Clint had murmured lazily, and for a moment he’d almost— _almost_ —pulled back just enough to let their mouths slide together. 

Now, three hours later, Clint was thinking of Phil as _his_.

He slammed his knuckles into the brick. The pain was sharp, biting, and Clint appreciated the hell out of it. 

With his right hand stinging, Clint typed out a quick text to Phil with his left: _Can’t meet tonight, something came up._

Screw their stupid Fury project. Clint was gonna get his shit together.

~

Phil was standing outside the door to his Psychology class with Steve when his phone buzzed. Steve was in the middle of ranting about the unknown plot of the new _Jurassic Park_ movie, which was always entertaining. Steve was very serious about his dinosaurs.

“I’m just saying, we have new evidence now!” he said earnestly as Phil took out his phone. “There should at least be feathered velociraptors at some point, y’know? It’s a new movie, and we have new science.”

Phil wished Bucky was around—he never failed to get Steve all riled up by insisting that birds weren’t reptiles. Steve fell for it every time. “Maybe you should write Spielberg an angry letter.”

“Quit trying to sound like Bucky,” Steve said with a very exasperated eye roll. “You’re both jerks.”

“Barnes would take that as a compliment,” Phil replied with a smirk, but his good mood faded when he read the text waiting for him from Clint.

_Can’t meet tonight, something came up._

What the hell did that mean? Clint never canceled their meetings—unless something bad had happened. Phil thought back to earlier that morning in the locker rooms. Clint had been loose and relaxed, even happy, if the pleased hums he’d made after he’d come in Phil’s hand had meant anything. He’d gotten a lot more tactile with Phil since that night he’d taken Phil home from the game; he touched Phil almost constantly the second they were alone, hands sliding over Phil’s stomach, the small of his back, his nape. Even after they’d both come, Clint seemed reluctant to let any space come between them. Sometimes he’d pull Phil in close and nuzzle his face into the curve of Phil’s jaw, like he just wanted to breathe Phil in. 

Something had changed, but Phil was afraid to bring it up. Talking about stuff never lead to anything good. 

“Hey, are you okay?” Steve asked. 

Phil blinked at him, unaware he’d been glaring at his phone. “What? Um, yeah. Sure.” But what if Clint had problems at home again? If he was in trouble, Phil would figure something out, he’d talk his mom into letting Clint stay over, or maybe—

“I wish you’d tell me what was really going on.” Steve was watching him with a worried look in his eyes. 

“Nothing’s going on.”

“Everyone’s noticed how distracted you’ve been lately. You might think you’re being subtle, but you’re not.”

Steve had always been scarily perceptive. Between him and Pepper, Phil rarely hid anything. It was hard lying to them. 

“You wouldn’t understand,” Phil said quietly, shoving his phone back into his bag, but not before he texted back, _If it’s bad, tell me._

“Wouldn’t understand what? Why don’t you tell me first and see for yourself.”

Phil sighed. He couldn’t even explain this thing with Clint to himself, let alone his friends. “Can you just drop it, Steve? I appreciate you guys being worried, but—”

“Are you dating someone you don’t think we’d approve of?” Steve asked. He suddenly looked so hurt, Phil wanted to hug him. “We’d never judge you like that— _I’d_ never judge you like that.”

“I’m not dating anyone,” Phil said tightly. At least it was the truth. “It’s complicated. That’s all I’ll say.”

Steve shook his head. “Look, promise that when it stops being complicated you’ll tell me? Or Bucky?” He laughed weakly, since they both knew Bucky was the worst at keeping secrets.

Clint Barton was about as complicated as they came, and Phil didn’t think that was going to change anytime soon. But Steve’s sad puppy eyes were hard to take for long, so Phil forced a smile and replied, “Yeah, I promise.”

Steve didn’t look thoroughly convinced—he and Pepper shared the same ‘I-know-you’re-hiding-something’ expression—but he didn’t press Phil any further. “I’m gonna be late for Chemistry. I’ll catch up with you later.”

Phil wanted to feel like a dick for keeping things from Steve, but the unanswered text to Clint kept tugging at his mind. He spent all of class waiting for his phone to buzz with a response.

He never got one. 

~

It didn’t use to be all that hard to avoid Phil at school. Ignoring Phil had been easy, effortless. It never left a dull ache in his chest.

Clint hadn’t seen Lucky in several days, and he desperately missed his dog. Occasionally Phil would text him pictures of Lucky curled up on his dog bed, or sitting at Phil’s feet. Clint secretly cherished every one of them, and kept them in a special folder on his phone. 

Thursday night, after he’d refused to go to Phil’s house, Phil sent him a text at ten o’clock. It was a selfie with his face smushed up against Lucky’s, who was panting happily at the camera. Phil was smiling crookedly.

 _Lucky misses you & hopes everything’s okay_, the following text read.

As Clint stared at the photo, that same dull ache swept through him. He’d ignored Phil all day, hadn’t answered his previous texts, and yet Phil had still taken the time to send him a picture of Lucky. 

_”He cares about you,”_ Nat’s words echoed in his head. Clint traced his thumb over the screen, along the edge of Phil’s smile. His heart beat a little faster.

He was about to do something really stupid, like text Phil back that he was all right, when he heard Margo’s raised voice down the hall from his room.

“I really wish you’d told me first, Terry,” she said. There was angry worry in her tone. “This is a huge deal. What happens if they say yes?”

“It’s a huge deal and that’s the whole point. D’you know how much the starting salary is for loading managers up there? More money than we’d ever see around here.”

“It’s Minnesota. It snows a million days a year! You hate snow!”

“I hate my job here more. Okay, yeah, I should’ve told you I was interviewing, but it just sorta happened. I couldn’t pass the opportunity up.”

Clint stood tucked against the doorway by the kitchen. He could see Margo sitting at the dining table, still dressed in her work uniform. Terrance leaned on the refrigerator as he opened a fresh beer bottle and tossed the cap onto the counter.

Margo sighed heavily. “We’d have to put the house up for sale.”

Terrance shrugged. “We’ll rent in Minneapolis until it sells.”

“What about Clint?”

A long pause. Clint held his breath.

Terrance said, “The paperwork for moving him out of state’ll be a bitch.” 

Clint slumped against the wall, his legs suddenly too weak to hold him.

“It’s three months into the school year. We can’t expect him to—”

“I’m not doing this for Clint, Margo. As far as I’m concerned, he can manage whatever we tell him. Hell, maybe Minneapolis will help get his ass in line for a change.”

“What if we can’t get through all the red tape?”

“Then he can be another family’s problem.” 

Clint’s cheeks felt too hot. He curled his hands into fists to keep them from shaking before slipping silently back down the hallway to his room. 

Once the door shut behind him, lock firmly in place, Clint collapsed on his bed and let out a loud, broken sigh that sounded a lot like a sob. He covered his face with his hands, bit down hard on his lower lip.

He could handle this. He could. It wasn’t like he’d never started over in a strange town, or went months without friends. Clint knew how to survive. And in a year he’d be eighteen and on his own for good. Whatever happened, he just had to tough it out for a year. 

“One year,” he whispered into his palms. 

He wanted to scream. Mostly, though, Clint wanted to cry over how easily everything in his life could go to shit.

He thought of the picture of Lucky and Phil on his phone. Wherever Clint ended up, Lucky was going to be miles and miles away from him. He’d probably never see him again.

He’d probably never see Phil again.

Clint curled up on his bed, his spare pillow clutched to his chest as he dialed a number he’d never called before tonight. 

On the third ring, he heard Phil say, “Clint?”

He opened his mouth to say something, anything. 

“Clint, is that you? Are you okay?”

 _I don’t want to leave you._ He couldn’t form the words without breaking down.

“Clint—”

He hung up and shut his phone off, pushing it under the mattress. He wondered how long it would take Phil to forget about him. Clint wagered three months, maybe five. He’d be taking care of Clint’s dog, after all.

Clint rolled onto his stomach, buried his face in his pillow, and quietly fell apart.

~

Phil stared at his laptop screen and reread the same line of his lit notes for the millionth time. He knew there would be a quiz over _The Great Gatsby_ the next day, but a dumb quiz meant nothing when he couldn’t stop thinking about the phone call from Clint not ten minutes ago. Clint had never called him before, and Phil knew, he _knew_ from the silence on the other end of the line that something was very, very wrong.

His mom was home for the rest of the week, which meant she’d be up late at the dining room table with her laptop and work files. Phil rarely heard her go to bed before midnight.

He considered sneaking out the back door, but Phil knew, eventually, his mom would notice he was gone. He’d once tried sneaking out to go to Bucky’s house when he was twelve and grounded—he’d been caught in less than twenty minutes. Besides, Phil didn’t like lying to his mom. 

He snapped his laptop shut, huffing out a loud breath. No, he wouldn’t second-guess this. Phil needed to get to Clint, end of story. He grabbed a hoodie and shoved his sneakers on, tucking his phone into the back pocket of his jeans as he ran down the stairs.

Sure enough, his mom was camped out at the dinner table, lost in a sea of paperwork, the glow from her MacBook reflecting off of her reading glasses. She glanced up when Phil came to a stop in the doorway.

“You look like you’re going out,” she said with a knowing smile. “It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?”

Phil swallowed. “It’s an emergency.”

His mom frowned. “Can I help?”

“No, I—” He winced and pushed a hand through his hair. Phil wished his heart wasn’t beating so hard. “It’s Clint. I...I have to go see him.”

“Right now?”

“Yeah. Right now.” Phil felt his cheeks go warm, but he held his mom’s gaze and squared his shoulders. 

She sat back in her chair and folded both arms over her chest. “Clint doesn’t have the best home life, does he.” It wasn’t a question.

Phil shook his head.

“That’s why Lucky’s with us.” Again, not a question. 

“Lucky is all he has,” Phil said softly. “His foster dad tried to—you didn’t see the bruise.” He took a step forward and gripped the back of the closest dining chair. Everything went a bit blurry as he pictured Clint sitting alone in his room, nursing another black eye, or worse.

He didn’t notice that his mom was standing beside him until she cupped his chin and forced him to meet her eyes.

“He’s special to you, isn’t he?” she whispered. 

Phil couldn’t lie to her. He was tired of lying to himself. “Yeah,” he said in a tiny voice, and that one word felt both impossibly huge and incredibly freeing. 

His mom gave him a slow, careful smile. “I wondered. You’re always watching him, like you can’t take your eyes away. I’ve never seen you like that with anyone else before.”

“I’ve looked at people,” Phil said, trying to duck away from her hold. She held on.

“Not like you look at Clint.”

“I…” He didn’t know what to say to that. “Are you saying you’ll let me go?”

She sighed. “Yes, but don’t stay out too late. And if it’s truly an emergency, you _will_ tell me and not try to fix things yourself. Right?”

Phil nodded, his heart in his throat. 

From his dog bed in the living room, Lucky woofed.

“You should take him with you,” his mom said.

Phil pictured Clint’s foster dad going ballistic at seeing Lucky near his house. “That’s probably not a good idea.” But if worse came to worse, he’d bring Clint to Lucky. 

~

Though he’d only been there once, Phil still remembered Clint’s address. It was almost scary, how easily he made the various turns without any thought, until he eventually found himself parked across the street from the same shabby two-story he remembered from that rainy, horrible day he’d met Lucky.

The house was dark except for a dim light in a downstairs window. Having never actually been inside Clint’s house, Phil didn’t begin to know which room was his. He held his breath as he dialed Clint’s number.

It went straight to voicemail. 

“Damn it,” Phil muttered, slamming his hand against the steering wheel. Then again, what was he expecting? Just walk into Clint’s house and make small talk with his fosters? He leaned back in his seat and stared helplessly at the house.

Curtains shifted against the single light; that downstairs window was open, Phil noticed. The curtains parted for a moment, and suddenly he could just make out the shape of a person lying on a bed.

Phil fumbled the car door open, heart jammed in his throat. He nearly tripped over his feet rushing to get to that window, to make sure Clint was okay. More horrible, ugly images of Clint bruised and battered flashed through Phil’s mind, making his stomach cramp. 

As he got closer, Phil could see Clint clearly through the flimsy curtains, curled up on his side facing the wall. He looked small and very young. Phil could see the line of Clint’s spine through the thin cotton of his t-shirt.

Phil’s mouth went dry. _Did someone hurt you again?_ he thought. His hands were shaking.

He couldn’t stand out there all night staring through Clint’s bedroom window like a creeper. Phil had to do something. 

Swallowing hard, he said in a rough voice, “Hey.”

Clint startled badly. The pillow clutched in his arms fell to the floor as he jolted upright on the bed. He looked around wildly until his gaze landed on Phil.

“What—” Clint blinked. “What the fuck, Coulson?” His voice sounded like it was scrapped raw. 

And that’s when Phil saw the shirt Clint was wearing. 

He pushed back the curtains with both hands and hefted himself through the window. “Is that my soccer camp shirt?”

Clint stood up and plucked absently at the hem. “I guess,” he mumbled.

Phil had forgotten that Clint still had it. That afternoon in his room seemed like a lifetime ago. So much had happened since then. 

He glanced around the room and took in the bare walls, the single bed in the corner with the worn quilt and pale blue sheets. Nothing gave the impression that a high school kid lived there except the dirty laundry on the floor and an empty Doritos bag on the nightstand. Taped above a small dresser was a picture of a hawk—it looked like a page torn from an ancient issue of _Zoobooks_. Clint’s bow and quiver sat by the closet door, but there didn’t seem to be any other personal items around. 

Phil looked back at Clint, who was slowly curling in on himself again, arms hugged tight around his chest. His eyes were very red and puffy, but they weren’t bruised.

“What happened?” Phil whispered, because he couldn’t make himself say the words any louder. He could barely breathe.

Clint kept his head bowed and didn’t say anything. Silence ticked by, until Clint sniffed softly and jerked the back of his hand over his nose.

Phil had never wanted to touch someone so badly. He wanted to wrap himself around Clint, sink into him, take whatever hurt he was feeling as his own. He wanted to find whoever had made Clint look like this and make them pay. 

He didn’t touch Clint. But he did move closer, close enough that he could feel the heat coming off Clint. He could hear Clint’s breathing, the way it was stuttered, shallow, like he was desperately trying not to cry.

“Clint—”

“You didn’t have to come here.” 

“You needed me to. You wouldn’t have called if you didn’t.”

Clint shook his head. Phil waited for him to tell him to get out, or leave him alone, or shut the fuck up. 

The very last thing Phil expected was for Clint to give a tiny, devastating sob and reach out to curl his hand into the front of Phil’s hoodie. He tugged Phil close until their foreheads pressed together.

“You didn’t have to come,” Clint whispered again, and Phil felt Clint’s fingers tighten against his chest. Like he was afraid Phil would leave.

Phil had spent many years learning how to take care of himself, or at the very least, how to adapt when things seemed to be falling apart around him. He had a mom who loved him dearly, and that went a long way. But Clint didn’t have anyone. If the world fell apart, Clint just held on and hoped he’d come out in one piece when it was all over.

Maybe it was the helplessness that washed over Phil at knowing he couldn’t save Clint from all the shit in his life that made him do it. Maybe it was just the need to do _something_ instead of watching Clint shiver on the verge of tears. Phil would look back on it later and never really know why.

He simply leaned back, cupped Clint’s face with both hands, and kissed him like it was the last thing left for him to do.

Phil held his breath, mouth barely parted. Clint’s lips were chapped, but they were warm, warmer that his scruffy cheeks. He heard Clint gasp softly as he held very still and didn’t kiss back. 

_Don’t push me away,_ Phil thought. _Please let me, just this once._

Very slowly, Clint’s grip on Phil’s hoodie relaxed, and Phil’s heart sank. 

Then Clint tilted his head slightly and sighed against Phil’s mouth, the tip of his tongue sliding softly over Phil’s lower lip. 

Phil thought about the first kiss between them, how it was fueled by anger and desperation and hurt. He remembered thinking it was nothing like how he’d envisioned his first kiss. 

This was nothing like that moment on Phil’s kitchen floor. This kiss was careful, gentle like a first touch, an initial discovery, as if they’d never kissed before. Clint felt fragile under Phil’s hands, and Clint kissed with an edge of nervous sweetness. Phil felt as if the whole world had ground to a halt, time silently waiting on the two of them to figure out how to be together like this, like they’re…

 _Like we fit,_ Phil thought, and he opened his mouth a little wider, made the kiss a little deeper. He wished he could crawl inside Clint and know all his secrets, all his dreams, _everything,_ good and bad, Phil didn’t care. He wanted all of Clint, not just the parts that were allowed.

His hands slid back into Clint’s hair, thumbs tracing the downy edges of Clint’s ears. Clint shivered against him, gave a soft, gorgeous whimper that made Phil wrap his arms around Clint’s neck and hold him tighter. The kiss grew wetter, faster, and God, _this_ was how Phil had imagined his first time: breathless, dizzy, heart beating so hard he thought it might burst, and never wanting to stop.

Which is why Phil nearly cried when Clint suddenly jerked back and gasped, “Wait.”

Phil gritted his teeth, unable to paw through the mountain of emotions roaring in his head. “Don’t,” he started, because if Clint made him leave now—

“We can’t do this here,” Clint said, and his ragged voice was every single one of Phil’s filthiest fantasies. He didn’t stop staring at Phil’s mouth. 

“Do you.” Phil stopped, swallowed to make his voice work. He noticed, belatedly, that Clint’s right hand had worked its way up under Phil’s hoodie and was splayed over his lower back. “Do you wanna go somewhere?”

Clint’s left hand finally released its death grip over Phil’s heart to reach up and touch Phil’s cheek. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s get out of here,” he said, thumb tracing the corner of Phil’s mouth before he leaned into another kiss, this one slow and messy. The small logical part of Phil’s brain that was still functioning knew that Clint didn’t want to get caught making out by his foster dad, but leaving meant letting go of Clint, which also meant he’d have to stop kissing Clint. It seemed like a lot, especially when he was melting into the circle of Clint’s arms around him. 

He didn’t know who broke away first. He only remembered eventually climbing out the window after Clint, heart pounding and hands shaking. They got into Phil’s car and Phil asked, “Where do you want to go?”

Clint leaned back in his seat. He was still breathing hard, and his mouth looked very wet and swollen in the bluish glow of the streetlights. Phil wanted to bury his face in Clint’s neck and breathe him in forever.

“Wherever you wanna go, Weasel. Surprise me.” Clint gave him a lopsided grin. 

Phil pushed across the center console and kissed him. 

~

They drove to a Waffle House on the edge of town. It bordered a truck stop, which meant the clientele wasn’t all that reputable, but most kids from school didn’t hang out there. Phil liked to go there sometimes to be by himself while still being around people who didn’t know him or give a shit who he was.

They tucked themselves into a tiny two-man booth in the corner of the restaurant. Phil told himself it was for privacy and not for the opportunity to have his legs fit between Clint’s under the table. 

Under the garish fluorescent lights, Phil could see the dark circles under Clint’s eyes. He seemed to shrink into himself again once they were in public, curling into his purple hoodie like a shell. But he smiled politely at the waitress and ordered coffee and a massive plate of hash browns with cheese. 

“Didn’t really eat anything today,” he said sheepishly, pulling at his sleeves. 

Phil bit back the urge to ask what had happened. He waited for the waitress to pour their coffee, and as Clint dumped an obscene amount of sugar into his cup, he said, “Just tell me, yes or no—are you okay?”

Clint held his coffee with both hands, staring into his cup like it held the secrets of the universe. “No,” he replied.

Beneath the table, Phil felt Clint’s knee press up against his leg.

“Can I help?” Phil whispered.

Clint took a long sip. “No.”

“If it’s about Lucky, you know I can—”

“It’s not Lucky.” 

Phil scrubbed his hands over his face. “Then what? Is Xavier kicking you out of school for the fight? Did Fury say something to you about our project, because fuck that, he hasn’t talked to us in weeks about what the hell we’re—”

“I’m leaving.”

The words just sort of hung in the air for a moment. Phil blinked at him. “You’re what?”

Clint slammed his coffee cup down on the table, and they both sat silence as coffee sloshed everywhere, dripping off the end of the table. Clint pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered, _”Fuck.”_

“Why...why are you leaving?” Phil could hear the panic in his voice.

Naturally, the waitress showed up with their food, giving Clint an excuse to avoid the question. He dug into his hash browns, eyes downcast.

Phil didn’t touch his burger. “You can’t just...leave Natasha like this.”

Clint finally met his eyes. “I can’t leave Nat, huh?” He stabbed his fork at a pile of cheese.

“Not without a reason, she’ll wanna know why you want to—”

“You think I _want_ this?”

“I don’t know what you want! You’re not telling me anything!” Phil hissed. An elderly couple a few booths over gave him dirty looks.

Clint’s jaw flexed as he glared at his mostly-empty plate. “Terrance interviewed for a job in Minnesota,” he said through clenched teeth. “If he gets it, they’re moving and taking me with them. Or, more likely—” Clint laughed, ugly and sharp “—they throw me back into the system and I end up who-the-fuck-knows-where. Probably with a couple who make Terrance look like fucking Santa Claus.” He tossed his fork down and shoved his plate away.

A cold stone settled in Phil’s stomach. “They can’t do that. You’re seventeen, you’ve only got a year before you’re an independent.”

“Yeah. A year. Still counts.” Clint shut his eyes and folded his arms on the table, dropping his head onto them with a heavy sigh.

Since they were sitting in a Waffle House surrounded by people, Phil couldn’t exactly crawl into Clint’s side of the booth and kiss him until they couldn’t breathe. But he could reach across the table and push his hand into Clint’s hair.

“We’ll figure something out,” Phil whispered. “You said Terrance hadn’t actually gotten the job yet, right?”

Clint grunted something unintelligible. 

“You’re not going anywhere. If they decide to put you back in the system, I’ll—I’ll have my mom look into it. She knows some people who practice family law, they’d probably know some loopholes. Hell, if I told her tonight what was going on, she’d probably drop everything to help.”

Clint lifted his head, making Phil’s hand slip down to cup the side of his face. “She’d really do that?”

Phil smiled. “‘Course she would, she knows what you mean to me.” The words sort of slipped out without Phil’s consent. He froze, heart in his throat and his thumb grazing Clint’s temple.

After a moment, Clint pushed gently into Phil’s touch like a cat. “You got a crush on me, Weasel?” he asked softly, grinning up at Phil from under his lashes. 

If the urge to kiss Clint had been strong in the past, it was totally overwhelming now that Phil knew it was allowed, that he _could_. His mouth went wet at the thought of sliding across the table and sucking Clint’s plush lower lip.

“Shut up,” he said with a laugh as he dropped his hand. He didn’t miss the split second where Clint turned his head, as if he’d meant to kiss Phil’s palm.

They sat for another hour, Clint drinking coffee while Phil told dumb stories about Lucky and the blue jay that lived behind his house. Clint’s shoulders gradually relaxed and he started to smile more; at one point Phil curled his index finger around Clint’s in a loose hold. Clint didn’t pull his hand away, not even when the waitress came by to ask if they needed anything.

“You should take me back,” Clint said. “It’s almost midnight. Your mom’s probably freaking out.”

Phil hadn’t paid a bit attention to the time, which was a problem. “She was knee-deep in files when I left, she might not even—”

Right on cue, his phone rang. His mother’s number flashed on screen. Phil grimaced.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m coming straight home,” he answered quickly. 

“Everything all right?” she asked. She didn’t sound angry.

“We were just...talking. At Waffle House.” 

“Waffle House, hmm?” She chuckled, and Phil figured he was in the clear. “Well, when you’re done ingesting all that grease, you should both go to bed. It’s a school night.”

“Clint just said as much. You’re psychic.”

“I wish.” She paused, then asked in a softer voice, “Does Clint need a place to stay tonight?”

Phil glanced across the table, took in Clint’s tired eyes and rumpled hair. The thought of leaving him alone in his empty room made Phil’s chest ache. 

“It probably wouldn’t hurt,” he said. He looked away when Clint frowned quizzically at him.

“Well, then bring him home. I’m sure Lucky will be thrilled to see him.”

He sighed in relief. “Thanks.”

“But—and I mean this, Phil—Clint sleeps in the guest room. Downstairs. Got it?”

Phil absolutely did not blush. He hadn’t even admitted to anything physical with Clint, but he was right: his mom was psychic. “Right, sure, got it,” he mumbled. It was pointless to argue with her when he was getting what he wanted, anyway. 

“I’ll see you both in twenty minutes?”

“Yup. Bye.” Phil hung up and pretended Clint wasn’t watching him with narrow, curious eyes.

“What’d she say to you?” he asked.

Phil scrunched his mouth to one side. “Nothing. You’re staying the night with me.”

Clint’s eyes flared. “Seriously?”

“In the downstairs guest room,” Phil added quickly and cleared his throat.

Clint burst out laughing. He leaned over the table until he was nearly nose to nose with Phil. 

“D’you know you’re fucking adorable when you’re embarrassed as hell?” 

Phil wanted to glare at him, he really did. “You’re an asshole when you’re smug, did you know that?” he shot back, but his eyes never left Clint’s mouth.

“I did, actually.” Clint swooped in, giving Phil a quick, featherlight kiss. “C’mon. I wanna see this guest bed of yours.”

~

His mom was waiting for them when Phil and Clint walked through the front door. She smiled at Clint and asked, “Can I get you anything?”

Clint curled into his hoodie. “No, thanks. You’ve done enough already,” he replied quietly, and he looked so shy and relieved that Phil wanted to wrap his arms around him. There was a foot of space between them that felt like miles. Phil didn’t want to leave Clint’s side.

“Well, your room’s down the hall to the left. There’s fresh towels in the bathroom if you need a shower. Breakfast is at seven-thirty—and we’ll talk more then,” she added with a firm look at Phil.

He gave her a quick hug in reply. “Thank you,” he whispered in her ear.

She kissed his cheek and murmured, “He’s lucky to have you for a boyfriend.”

Phil was too exhausted to correct her. Eventually he’d tell her everything and she’d understand, but right now he just wanted to make sure Clint slept through the night, happy and safe. 

As if on cue, Lucky appeared and promptly flung himself at Clint, nearly toppling him to the ground. The sound of Clint’s open, honest laughter as he wrestled with his dog made all sorts of emotions bloom in Phil’s chest. For a moment, he could barely breathe.

“You’re staring,” his mom said, poking him in the chest. “Now go to bed. That seven-thirty breakfast call is non-negotiable.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Phil mumbled. Fortunately, Clint was too occupied with Lucky to notice his blush.

~

Phil wasn’t sure how to proceed once his mom went to bed. He’d never really had someone other than Steve or Bucky stay over, and this wasn’t a typical guy’s night of XBox marathons and pizza. 

Once Lucky settled down, Clint got to his feet and glanced over his shoulder toward his room. “So, uh. I guess I’ll just...hit the sack.”

“I’ll show you where the bathroom is,” Phil said, even though he knew Clint could find it on his own. Lucky trailed after them down the hall as Phil gestured to the shower on his right before coming to a stop in the doorway of the guest room. His mom had already turned down the blankets on the bed.

“She’s really great,” Clint said. “Your mom, I mean.” 

“I know.” Phil hugged his arms to his chest. He desperately wanted to kiss Clint, or just touch him in some small way, but now that they were back in his house, it felt weird to be so...casual. Affectionate. 

“Hey.” Clint nudged his sneaker against Phil’s. “You okay?”

Phil tried not to concentrate on how close Clint was standing, how easy it would be to fall into him. “I should be asking you that,” he replied with a small laugh.

“I’ve got my pizza dog and a swanky bed. I think I’m good.” 

“That bed’s hardly swanky. It’s not like this is a hotel.”

“It might as well be. You got all the best stuff, Coulson.” 

“You used to hate coming to my house.” Phil couldn’t help himself; he reached out and tugged playfully on the zipper of Clint’s hoodie. 

Clint took a step closer. “You used to hate having me in your house.” 

“Only because I thought you’d make fun of me.”

“For having nice digs?”

“For...all the nerd shit in my room. I don’t know.” They were both whispering for some reason. It wasn’t necessary; his mom’s bedroom was on the other side of the house. She’d never hear them.

Clint licked his mouth slowly. His lips were all shiny and Phil could hear his pulse pounding in his ears. “I like your room. Like your house.”

“Because of Lucky?” They were so, so close now. He could feel the warm puff of Clint’s words against his chin.

“Maybe. He’s here ‘cause of you.” Clint swallowed, and Phil watched the slow, smooth bob of his throat. “And I like you, too.” 

And suddenly it was Phil’s turned to be kissed as Clint’s callused hand cradled the side of his face while the other pushed up under Phil’s own hoodie. Cold fingertips skimmed over his belly, traced lines over the edge of his jeans, and that was when Phil realized he couldn’t go back to his own room.

“I’m gonna stay here,” he gasped.

“Yeah,” Clint growled, nipping sharply at Phil’s lower lip. “What about your mom—”

“We’ll have to be quiet.” It was a risk and he was breaking a promise, but there was no going back. Phil wanted this. 

He forced himself to let go of Clint long enough to shut the guest room door. Lucky made a sad whimpering noise as Phil shooed him into the hallway. “I promise we’ll make it up to you, buddy,” Phil said before turning the lock.

Clint was on him in a heartbeat, pulling him back into the kiss like they’d never stopped. They stumbled back toward the bed, hands everywhere as their legs tangled together. Phil laughed breathlessly as Clint yelped in surprise when the back of his knees hit the end of the mattress and the two of them went sprawling. Phil ended up braced over Clint, his thighs on either side of Clint’s hips.

“Real funny, Weasel,” Clint grumbled, but he was smiling as he yanked Phil’s hoodie off with one smooth glide of his hands. “Not my fault I don’t know my way around here.” 

Phil had a snappy comeback for that, only it was forgotten the second Clint sat up and licked, slow and dirty, into Phil’s mouth, one hand cupped around the back of Phil’s neck while the other trailed down his stomach to tease over the front of Phil’s jeans.

“I…” Phil couldn’t form words at the moment. He was lost in the sensation of tasting Clint while simultaneously pushing against Clint’s hand, friction and wet heat swirling together in his head. Phil desperately needed Clint bare, needed to know what their skin felt like sliding together as Phil kissed the last of his breath away.

“Wanna to feel you,” he panted, and the words sounded needier than Phil intended. But Clint didn’t seem to mind, just nodded jerkily and wiggled out of his hoodie and t-shirt, both getting caught at his wrists in his rush. Clint glared at his hands, mumbled, “Aw, c’mon,” as he tried to free himself. 

Phil buried his face against Clint’s neck and laughed. “Need some help?” 

“You should be too horny to be laughing at me, jerkwad,” Clint said in an adorably disgruntled voice. 

“I can want to fuck you and still think you’re hilarious.” Phil licked over the spot behind Clint’s ear that never failed to make him shiver.

Clint abruptly went still underneath him with his hands pinned above his head. Phil sat back, afraid he’d said something wrong.

“What? I didn’t mean—”

“You can, you know,” Clint whispered. His eyes were wide and very blue in the low light.

Phil bit his lip. “I can what?”

“Fuck me. Right now.”

His stomach swooped so quickly Phil was dizzy with it. He hadn’t meant it literally when they’d been joking around—honestly, Phil had simply pictured them jerking each other off and then falling asleep on each other. The usual. 

Now, though...everything was suddenly _more_.

“I-I don’t have anything on me,” Phil stammered. He couldn’t tell if his heart was racing out of anticipation or fear—or both. “Everything’s upstairs, in my room.”

Clint sat up and rolled to the side of the bed. He finally yanked his tangled shirt and hoodie off his wrists and tossed them aside. “I’ve got, um. Stuff in my wallet.” He ran a hand through his hair, glancing tentatively over his shoulder at Phil.

Oh. Right. Of course Clint carried condoms with him. He was always prepared for the random hook-up. Phil swallowed against the ugly cold jealousy that curled up in his chest, reminding him of the bruise on Clint’s neck.

“Look, it’s no big deal, we can just mess around like before,” he said. Phil could hear his voice shake slightly. He kept his head bowed as he picked at the comforter.

He wasn’t expecting Clint to push him back against the bed and crawl on top of him, hands pressed against Phil’s shoulders. “Is that what you want?” he asked.

“Sure.” Phil turned his head, avoided Clint’s eyes. After everything that had happened between them, he couldn’t bear the thought of being just another notch in Clint’s bedpost.

 _You already are_ , a little voice in his head hissed, but Phil had always convinced himself that wasn’t true. Not completely. 

“Hey.” Clint swept his mouth over Phil’s. Their noses bumped together. “Hey, look at me. Coulson.”

Phil took a deep breath and looked up at him.

“If we did this...it wouldn’t be…” Clint winced, like he was fighting to find words. “You’re not—them. Other guys.”

“I know that,” Phil said a little too harshly. Damn it, what did Clint want to him say? He was lying half-naked under Clint with his taste in his mouth—being told he wasn’t going to be as good a fuck as the others was the last thing in the world he needed to hear.

“What I’m trying to say is. Just.” Clint shut his eyes, murmured _fuck_ under his breath. 

“With me you just get off,” Phil whispered. “I get it.”

“No, you don’t.” His hands slid along Phil’s shoulders until his thumbs framed Phil’s jaw. Clint held him steady as he slowly, gently kissed him, like Phil was made of glass. 

Against Phil’s mouth, Clint breathed, “With you, I belong somewhere.”

For a second, Phil nearly panicked, thinking he’d accidentally taken his pain meds and was hallucinating again. But then he reached up and splayed his hands against warm, bare skin, took in the way Clint sighed and kissed him a little deeper. He could feel Clint’s heart pounding under his palm, and that—that was real. It had to be. He couldn’t be imagining this.

He wanted to wrap Clint up in his arms, keep him safe, melt into him until he couldn’t tell where he ended and Clint began. Phil wouldn’t be those other guys, because none of them had been smart enough to realize that Clint was precious. Clint was _his._

Phil had never once given any thought to what being in love would feel like. It was always an abstract concept, something distant that happened to other people. He’d heard Pepper say she was in love with Tony, but what did that even mean? Who actually thought they were in love in high school?

But if needing to be with someone more than your next breath, or wanting to protect someone with every fiber of your being was anything like love, well. Maybe Phil knew what Pepper meant after all.

He couldn’t say the words out loud. It was too much, and Clint was kissing him like he never planned to stop. Phil eventually managed to break away and gasp, “I-I don’t know where to start. Should I get the condom or—”

“Here.” Clint rolled off him and pulled his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans. He flicked a blue condom and a thin silver packet of what Phil assumed was lube onto the bed before quickly shedding his pants and underwear. 

Phil’s mouth went dry. He’d seen Clint’s cock dozens of times, but never when Clint was fully naked. He’d never gotten to take in the gorgeous lines of Clint’s body, how solid and compact he was. His dick was hard and flushed pink, curling slightly to the left, but Phil couldn’t stop staring at the lovely smooth planes of his stomach, or the curve of his hipbones.

Clint noticed him staring and actually ducked his head. He gave Phil a shy smile; Phil instinctively knew it was genuine, not just a tease. “I figured I could, ah...ride you. Y’know, be on top,” he said as he gave his dick an absent tug.

All the breath wooshed out of Phil’s lungs. “Um. Okay. Yeah.” His own dick jerked hard in his jeans at the mere thought of Clint...sitting on top of him...sinking down onto him...oh, fuck, Phil was not going to last through this.

“Just— Don’t laugh if I don’t, uh.”

“Last?” Clint grinned, and it was so fucking sexy Phil wanted to moan. “There’s always round two, right?”

Phil whimpered. 

Clint seemed to take that as a good sign. His grin turned wicked. “Gotta get you naked first,” he drawled, kneeling up on the bed and attacking the fly of Phil’s jeans. He wasn’t gentle with Phil anymore, and Phil was fine with that. He lifted his hips, desperate to get his cock free, and was only a little self-conscious when Clint sat back on his heels and huffed softly, “Damn.”

“‘s not like it’s changed,” Phil said with a broken laugh. He was leaking everywhere, but he didn’t dare touch himself.

“Don’t let this go to your head, Weasel, but...you’re not exactly small.” Clint licked his mouth. His eyes were nearly all pupil. 

“You don’t think I’ll fit?” 

“Oh, you’ll fit,” Clint growled. He held up the lube packet. “Let’s just hope I got enough of this.”

Phil started to ask if he needed to use some on the condom—he’d seen that done enough in porn—but he lost all capacity for words when Clint climbed up onto the bed, straddled Phil’s legs, and poured nearly all the lube into the palm of his left hand. 

Then he slicked his fingers and promptly began stretching himself.

Phil’s mouth fell open.

Clint’s wicked grin returned with a flicker of raw pleasure. “What, you never seen a guy prep himself?” He bit off the last of the sentence on a soft moan, tilting his head back. 

Phil had been wrong. He’d never actually watched porn. _This_ was porn. Jealousy curled up in his stomach once more at the thought of someone else getting to see Clint like this.

 _Mine_ , he thought again with hazy red want as he palmed Clint’s thighs.

“I can trust you to get the condom on, right?” Clint’s voice was getting progressively rougher, deeper. 

Phil was slightly terrified he’d come in five seconds if he touched himself. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, even though he’d never put on a condom in his life; a banana during eighth grade sex ed didn’t count. He managed to get the foil open without too much fumbling, and after a few deep breaths, he quickly rolled the condom down his cock.

“You ready?” 

“I—” Phil was gasping and they hadn’t even started yet. “Don’t you need more, like, time?”

Clint hummed and leaned down to lick into Phil’s mouth. “I think I’m good. ‘sides, you’re not the only one who’d kinda like to get this show on the road before he blows his load.”

He couldn’t help grinning. “Promise I won’t laugh.”

“If you’re laughing I’m not doing something right.” Clint straightened, his face serious again as he glanced down at Phil’s cock. With his wet hand, he stroked Phil once, which nearly made Phil lose it completely. He held his breath and tried to picture his seventy-year-old history teacher naked on a cold day.

“God, Clint,” he moaned. 

“Yeah,” Clint breathed, and with his lower lip caught between his teeth, he lifted up onto his knees, held Phil steady, then lowered himself down with agonizing slowness.

The feel of sliding into Clint’s tight, hot body was overwhelming, breath-stealing. The pressure of orgasm was already beginning to build low in Phil’s balls, but he wouldn’t come, he _wouldn’t_ , not until Clint was ready.

Above him, Clint whimpered, “Oh, god,” and shifted his hips. He sunk the rest of the way down.

“Shit, _shit_ , I-I can’t—” Phil dug his fingers into Clint’s thighs, desperate to thrust yet desperate to keep it together. They hadn’t even _moved_ yet.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Clint said in a rush, eyes still tightly shut. He looked torn between pleasure and pain. “Jesus, you’re bigger than I thought, god—”

“I don’t wanna hurt you—”

“No, no, just...give me a sec.” Clint gradually opened his eyes, and he gave Phil a small, lopsided smile. His cheeks were flushed bright pink. “Try moving,” he whispered.

Phil swallowed hard before he finally gave his body what it was screaming for. He pushed up, a tiny thrust, and Clint had to tuck his face against his arm to muffle his shout.

“Is it...okay?” Phil gasped.

“You have no idea,” Clint said. He swooped down to kiss Phil, all messy and a bit frantic. “You feel fucking incredible,” he added breathlessly.

“Good, ‘cause— I’m gonna come soon.” Phil’s hips had a mind of their own, and they were thrusting in a consistent rhythm now, faster and sharper. The bloom of orgasm grew hotter.

Clint moaned again, louder. Distantly, Phil knew he should be worried about his mom hearing, but nothing else existed at the moment beyond the bed. And he very much needed Clint to come with him.

Phil spit into his hand, wrapped his fingers tight around Clint’s neglected cock and pressed his thumb against the slit. He was wet, so wet, and Phil knew he had to be close.

As if reading his thoughts, Clint groaned, “Please,” and thrust into Phil’s hand. Phil pumped him, hard, and at the same time he felt Clint clench around him. Everything happened in a roaring rush: Clint’s cock spurted over Phil’s fingers, his stomach and his chest, while Phil felt like his own orgasm went on for hours.

When Phil came back to himself, he was covered in Clint’s come, and Clint was staring down at him like he’d had a religious experience.

“Is it...always like that?” Phil managed to ask. His voice was shredded.

Clint reached out and drew his finger through the come painting Phil’s chest. “No,” he whispered.

Phil sat up carefully, slipping out Clint’s body with a wince, and pulled Clint into his lap. They were a mess, but he didn’t care; he wrapped his arms around Clint’s waist and kissed him. His exhausted, post-coital heart thumped happily when Clint gave his familiar contented purr and curled into Phil’s embrace.

~

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Phil had had every intention of wiping himself off and getting rid of the condom and then sneaking back upstairs to his room. 

But Clint had gone all boneless and pliant after coming; he kept nuzzling his face into Phil’s neck as Phil tried as best to clean them up with handfuls of tissues. 

“C’mon,” Phil laughed, gently pushing Clint onto his back. “You’ll be fucking disgusting in the morning if you don’t get this off.”

“‘s what showers are for,” Clint yawned. He stretched, long and languid, his body one gorgeous arc of skin and muscle. Phil’s dick gave a halfhearted twitch and _round two_ echoed in his head.

No, damn it, he had to get back to his own room. 

It didn’t matter that Clint had yet to put his boxers back on and was sprawled naked on the sheets. Or that he had one hand loosely curled around Phil’s wrist.

“I can’t stay,” Phil whispered, but he was already crawling under the blankets.

“Just five minutes,” Clint mumbled in a sleepy slur as he tugged Phil’s arm around him, their fingers tangled together. “You’re all warm. Kinda cold in here.”

“You’ve got blankets.” They fit together so perfectly like this. Phil skimmed his lips over the soft hair on Clint’s neck, smiling when Clint sighed and tucked himself tighter against Phil’s chest. He’d never pictured Clint as the snuggling type; maybe he never had been. Maybe he was a snuggler for Phil.

Phil was too worn out to think about it too deeply. He couldn’t snuggle for long, anyway. He had to get up in a few hours and have a long talk with his mom; that conversation would be off to an awkward start if she caught him sneaking shirtless out of the guest room.

He’d just close his eyes and wait until Clint was asleep.

~

Three and a half hours later, Phil finally managed to force himself upstairs. Lucky quickly took Phil’s spot on the bed at Clint’s side.

Phil told himself not be jealous of a dog.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [My Insides Are Copper](https://archiveofourown.org/works/979572) by [Pyracantha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyracantha/pseuds/Pyracantha)




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